There’s something about this recipe that just whispers to me across the sands of time. From summers spent eating it on the patio at my grandma’s house to stealing an extra piece after our Fourth of July celebration when I was 9 (and owning up, unsolicited, to the pilfered piece later, like a good little Mormon girl)—it just speaks of summer throughout. Maybe it’s the freshness of the lemon. Maybe it’s the cold sensation of ice cream. But I have a theory that it’s both.
