Friends. Countrymen. Casual readers who stumbled here while Googling "what the heck is Buc-ee’s." Gather 'round. Let me tell you the tale of our family’s first journey to the mythical land of... a gas station . But not just any gas station. No. This was Buc-ee’s —the much-hyped, larger-than-life, Texas-born roadside colossus that has somehow, impossibly, landed in Northern Colorado. Now, I’m no dummy. I’ve got Google. I’ve got Instagram. I’ve know people from Texas who treat Buc-ee’s like a sacred temple where you worship at the altar of beaver-branded snacks. So when Ivy and Zander declared that one of our Official Summer Family Activities™ was going to be a pilgrimage to the new-ish Buc-ee’s, I was aware it was going to be big. But here’s the thing: I was not prepared . Not even a little bit. Behold the Beaver Kingdom We pull off the highway and there it is: a glowing red sign with the famous cartoon beaver, surrounded by what looks like a never-ending sea of gas...

Well friends, it’s officially summer, which can only mean one thing: campfires, smores, and all the ooey gooey sugar bombs your sticky little heart desires. Or at least, that’s what it’s supposed to mean. But Colorado, in all her chaotic mountain glory, has other plans. For reasons I cannot begin to explain (global warming? angry weather gnomes? Mother Nature needing a dramatic phase?), it has been raining for days . DAYS. Not the cute, romantic “let’s cuddle with a book and a warm drink” rain. Oh no. This is soggy, relentless, “did we move to Seattle and forget?” rain. And if it’s not raining, it’s windy. Not like “oh a breeze, how refreshing!” No. We’re talking hair-whipping, furniture-launching, toto-we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore kind of wind. Fire pits? Campfires? HA. Unless we want to star in our own backyard disaster movie, absolutely not. And yet, Ivy and I had one thing on our summer bucket list that we were not letting go of: smores . We had visions. Marshmallows toasted t...

Okay, confession time: I am completely, hopelessly, wildly obsessed with frozen custard. Like, if it were socially acceptable to write love songs to food, there’d be a heartfelt ballad called “Sweet, Sweet Custard (You Had Me at Egg Yolk).” It would start with a slow piano intro and build to a dramatic chorus full of emotional falsetto. And don’t even get me started on chocolate custard. Honestly, if someone told me I could only eat one dessert for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t even flinch. Chocolate frozen custard, baby. Every. Single. Time. Now, here’s the thing: I didn’t always make my own custard. Oh no. Sometimes, a lot of times, I let Freddy's or Culver's do the work for me and I just live my custard dreams. Enter: The Ice Cream Maker of My Dreams One magical Mother’s Day, my kids gave me the gift: an old-fashioned ice cream maker. You know the kind—big wooden bucket, rock salt, loud as a jet engine, powered by either a small motor or the boundless enthusiasm of c...