Vanilla Ice Cream

There’s a photo I keep close. It’s from a summer day in Tehachapi, California. My father, sitting beside my son, both of them smiling as they dig into two generous scoops of vanilla ice cream. No bells and whistles. Just the old-school flavor that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. Vanilla was my dad’s favorite. It’s mine too. And now, by the look on that kid’s face, maybe it’s his.

Vanilla ice cream might seem plain to some, but that simplicity is deceptive. Behind the pale scoop is a story that winds through empires, experiments, and revolutions. Its journey isn’t neat, but neither is history. So, as we mark National Vanilla Ice Cream Day on July 23, let’s do what we do best around here. Let’s dig into the past, one bite at a time.

The first people to use vanilla weren’t Europeans in silk breeches or powdered wigs. It was the Mexica, long before the conquistadors muddied up the map. Vanilla flavored their cacao drinks, rich and bitter, laced with corn and served chilled. When the Spanish stumbled into Mexico, they brought vanilla back to Europe. At first, it was tethered to chocolate, but in 1602, Queen Elizabeth’s apothecary, Hugh Morgan, had a different idea. He recommended using vanilla on its own. That single decision cracked open a door that vanilla ice cream would someday walk through.

Now, the ice part of ice cream isn’t as modern as we like to think. The Chinese used snow to chill sweetened milk as far back as the Yuan Dynasty. Arab scientists knew how to make ice last longer with salt. That little trick, mixing salt with ice to drop the temperature, was the game-changer. Once it made its way to Europe—helped along by centuries of trade, war, and migration—the Italians and French went to work. They didn’t just freeze cream. They turned it into art. The French eventually added egg yolks for a custard-like texture, and with that, the creamy dream we know today started to take shape.

Thomas Jefferson didn’t invent vanilla ice cream. Let’s kill that myth right now. But he did write down one of the first known American recipes for it. And he didn’t scribble it out at Monticello on a lazy Sunday. No, Jefferson learned about ice cream in France in the 1780s. When he returned home, he brought with him molds, tools, and the know-how to make it happen. That recipe, written in his own hand, includes cream, sugar, egg yolks, and a stick of vanilla. The real kind. Not the lab-born knockoffs.

And Jefferson didn’t just make it for himself. He served it in the President’s House. In the early 1800s, guests wrote about ice cream encased in warm pastry. Think about that. Ice taken from ice houses in July, tucked into flaky crusts and served to senators. It blew their minds. One Congressman called it “very good.” Understatement of the decade.

Of course, all this elegance was built on the backs of the people who actually made it. Enslaved men like James Hemings handled the work at Monticello. Later, it was Honoré Julien, Jefferson’s chef in Washington, who turned presidential desserts into a side hustle, selling ice cream on F Street. The dessert might’ve looked refined, but the labor was hard, cold, and rarely credited.

Ice cream was still a luxury then. Making it required wooden buckets, metal molds, hours of stirring, and a steady supply of ice and salt. That changed in 1843 when Nancy Johnson patented the hand-crank ice cream freezer. Suddenly, the process got faster and cleaner. From there, it didn’t take long. Horsepower, steam engines, and later, electric motors made ice cream something a family could afford. After the Civil War, sugar was cheap, ice was easier to get, and ice cream was ready to leave the parlors and hit the streets.

Vanilla became the staple, but that word—plain—doesn’t do it justice. Vanilla’s flavor is deep. Smoky. Floral. Sometimes earthy. When it’s real, it tastes like memory. But real vanilla costs a fortune. So, we got vanillin. It’s the main compound in natural vanilla, and when it’s made in a lab, it’s cheap and consistent. The FDA now makes distinctions. If the carton says “vanilla ice cream,” it better be made with the real stuff. “Vanilla flavored” means there’s a mix. And “artificial vanilla” is exactly what it sounds like.

Still, no matter the label, the flavor hits a place in the soul. It’s not flashy, not trend-chasing. Vanilla ice cream stands still while the world spins. That’s probably why I love it. That’s why my dad did too.

There’s something about seeing that photo. My dad is gone now, but that moment in Tehachapi is frozen in time. My son, barely old enough to remember, digging his spoon into something that’s been around since Jefferson’s cook cranked a sorbetière over a bucket of salt and ice. It’s just dessert. But it’s also something more.

Vanilla ice cream is history you can taste. And every now and then, when the world gets loud, it helps to sit down, take a bite, and remember the simple things that hold us together.

Happy National Vanilla Ice Cream Day!