Saturday, March 11, 2017

It's Part of the Life

Father and Celeste at the hospital!
     “If you’re sad, play us a song,” Celeste says, swinging on our porch swing in the evening heat.
     I fumble, “No, I can’t! I don’t any songs by heart.” I realize that this isn’t exactly true, but being put on the spot makes my brain stop working…
     “You don’t know any?! What about… oh be careful little eyes what you see…” Celeste sings in English.
     “Well, I do know that one but that’s a children’s song. Ah, I have an idea just hold on a moment!” I say as I rush into my house. I find my mandolin and walk back outside.
     “Ah, you have a mandolin! Our choir doesn’t need to accompanied by a piano if you have that!” Celeste exclaims.
     “Well, I don’t want to play in front of the whole church, I can sing but I don’t want to play. I don’t mind playing for ya’ll. You’re my friends,” I explain to Lila and Celeste.
     I pluck the starting chords of a Kat Edmonson song, if you haven’t heard her work, it’s great. I sing it although it’s rough, I was nervous and I’ve never been good at performing solo.
     For the longest time, I didn’t understand fully why Congolese culture put so much importance on music, but Thursday night it finally clicked into place. Music can be so many things: it can be a way of expressing what you feel, it can be a way to turn off your brain, it’s a getaway, it’s a simple but wonderful gift, it’s a way of worship and it’s the perfect way to communicate and connect. Thursday night it was a goodbye gift from me to my friends. The song didn’t catch all that I was feeling, but it’s a pretty song and one that I wanted to share.
Lilas preparing and teaching me how to make Congolese food!
     It’s those words, “You’re my friends” that makes leaving on Tuesday morning so hard. Lila and Celeste are my two best friends here in Vanga. It was only two weeks ago that the three of us started to spend quality time with each other. I only truly got to know Celeste 2 weeks ago, but I’ve been friends with Lilas for ages and I am so thankful for that. (Here's the post I wrote about her when we first met: We’ve had movie nights, we’ve cooked and eaten together, we sing all the time, and just laugh so hard, like tears rolling down our faces laughing. I have been so blessed.

The goodbyes this time are especially hard because I don’t know when I’ll be back in Congo. It could be at Christmas, it could be in a year, it could be in several years. In the past, I’ve known when I was coming back. Isn’t that so true? The unknown is so much scarier, so much harder to deal with and I for one don’t like it especially when it involves people I love. Vanga has truly become home to me. I have so many people looking out for me, from our household workers to hospital staff to my friends in the Caisse to my best friends to the missionaries and my family. It’s hard to leave so many good people behind. As a missionary friend said to me last year at New Years, “Goodbyes are part of the life we’ve chosen.” It’s true, so very true. Part of my heart will be left here in Congo, part of it is in France and parts of it are scattered in the States. Goodbyes are hard and even as I get better at them there’s still pain that comes with it. As Winnie the Pooh puts it, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

Thursday, February 23, 2017

A House of Memories, Not a Home of Family

        Have you ever felt stuck? I don’t mean the kind of stuck like being stuck underneath the bed, although I’ve been there totally, I’m talking about being stuck emotionally. The trapped confusion between different contradicting emotions. Walking through a house can do that for me, specifically our past missionary partners, the Potters house. Today was one of the days I had to brave walking around in the shell of their home. A feeling of desertion flows through me, memories flash in my mind. There’s the rocking chair where I held tiny newborn Zachary the day he was born, where I fed him his bottle. That’s where Sydney and I would read books together, where I would protect her from the big, scary storms outside. I smile, they are good memories, they are ones I treasure greatly. I see that the collection of children’s books are mostly gone though and reality settles back in. I turn away. The rest of house is the same way, memories of good, joyful times and the hard reality that they’re will be no more memories made here with the Potters. Don’t get me wrong I am so thankful for these memories, so glad to have the time I did with the Potters. I think I have finally accepted the fact that the Potters may never set foot in Vanga again, they may never visit, they may never live here or move back. It makes me sad, I would love them to be here with us, with my family. Everyone misses them. I understand though that it may never come to be and as hard as that is, I am okay with that. I truly felt that calmness of acceptance as I walked through their house today. That house is full of memories that I don’t want to lose. I will see the Potters again soon, I will be in Togo with them and my mother in a month. I am very excited to see all of them again and make new, wonderful memories. But right now when I am in the Potters house I feel stuck. Stuck between being excited for the future memories to be made in Togo, the past memories that will be forever stuck in that house but never relived, the acceptance of them potentially never coming back to Vanga, the sadness, the grief, the thankfulness. It’s a hard place to be and a very peculiar one too.

Monday, January 18, 2016

Bountiful Blessings and an Unforeseen Curse

Peanut Butter snacks at the Lind abode in Kin
"Do you know what my name is? Do you remember me?" Axel looked at me, confused. He fussed, not wanting to answer. I didn't push. He's only 2....but then again, it had only been a week since we'd been best of buds. So much so that he didn't want me to do anything but play or at very least be in the same room as him. I clear my head, focusing on Lisa who's sitting in the front seat talking to our driver as the car backs out of the driveway. Time for Vanga grocery run! I had just begun a conversation with Lisa when I heard it, "Nounou. Nounou!" I turned smiling and Axel, happy that he finally was noticed, smiled back. He did remember. He remembered visiting Vanga for Christmas. He remembered the 12 hours we spent in the car driving back to Kinshasa. He remembered my name!
Axel loves his kitty!
Reading during my visit to their house in Kin.

Axel Lind, full-bred Lindian, cute blond kido decided with his family, after days of flip-flopping, to brave the 12 hour journey with 3 kids and a pregnant mama. We are so glad they did. For those of you who don't know, the Linds are a part of my adopted family. We met them briefly in St. Louis in 2012 and then reconnected in Albertville for 10 months of intense language school; And now we're all in Congo. From swapping Congo stories in St. Louis to stealing expresso in France to sharing 1 bathroom in Vanga between the 11 of us, we're now official the Ricepotlindians.

Christmas in Congo looks a little bit different than Christmas in the States. Instead of winter/snow jackets, we put on swimming jackets. Instead of real snow, we made vinyl snowflakes to stick on the windows. Instead of hot chocolate, we drank cold soda. But despite all the differences, it still felt mostly like Christmas. We even had the typical crowded house with Ryan and Shannon sleeping on twin mattresses in the living room floor and me on the couch. Each day while the Linds were here, we made sure to make it down to the Kwilu for an afternoon swim. The kids loved splashing, swimming and screaming.

Two oldest Lind kids playing outside!
"You're looking for something that makes a lot of noise right? Something like these?" Father asks as he shakes a reed shaker. The bright orange and red bottle caps collide as I take the brown and tan noisemaker from him. I smile mischievously, "Yep, exactly." He asks the vendor how much they cost and buys 5. Why was I on the hunt for these shakers? Well, back when we were in France, I watched the Lind kids for a weekend while Lisa and Matthew went away. Considerately, Matthew left a brand new kazoo for each of the kids to play that weekend. (That should be read oozing with sarcasm.) The kids had a blast tooting on their new instrument; I, on the hand, spent the weekend with ear plugs in! Ever since that weekend, I've looked for the best way to get him back and I finally found it. So the three Lind kids got brand new noisemakers for Christmas from yours truly.

Movie night with the fam!

It was hot. Boiling. I sat on the Potter's dark green couch and wilted. I sipped on my cold beverage, hoping that it would accept me into it's cool abode. Sadly, it refused. If only I could just pour it down my back to cool me off... "I think we're going to set up some stuff for a water fight for the kids if you want to join." Shannon said as she walked through the living room. I perked up, perfect! I joined the 4 kids, Matthew, and Shannon outside. We set up 4 different water stations (tubs filled with water) around the yard and then distributed plastic cups as wet weapons. Immediately, the kids and I formed an alliance and ganged up on Matthew. We snuck around trees, hid behind walls and ran away as he doused us in water. Let me telling you running in a wet ankle-length skirt is near impossible, thankfully Shannon provided me with some better water ninja clothes. I thought I finally had the edge on Matthew, he was running out of water, I ran back to collect more ammunition, laughing, but as I looked over my shoulder I knew I was wrong. Matthew was charging, not with a glass of water but with a tub of water! I screamed but it was too late. That was a morning of laughter, memory-making and reviving childish spirits.

On Wednesday morning, we packed up the Lind's bright yellow Land Rover with the Lind's and my stuff. I had decided to make the trek with them and visit my friends (my crew as we've been named) in Kinshasa. As we were finishing up, Papa Mizingu came over to me, "You're going too?" I hadn't told him yet that I was going and I was surprised to see...was that sadness in his eyes? "Yes, I am going to go see my friends in Kin and spend the fĂȘte there" He nodded his head, a little disappointed. "Papa, I'll be back soon." It was a touching moment; he really cares about me and my family. It's been such a breathtaking experience for me to build a relationship with him. He is so kind, understanding and caring. He was truly sad to see me go, even just for 6 days. I am so grateful that he's here to guide us through the ins and outs of living here in Vanga.
The Dread Pirate Jonathan and The Brit
Lydia and her brother, Austin

We arrived in Kinshasa without much hassle. Matthew took the super friendly, "Hey! Happy New Year! How are you?" approach, which thoroughly confused several of the the "toll attendants". We were passed through without the regular hassle and annoyance, which we learned, was due to the fact that there was a big shot rolling through and they didn't want to be caught with their pants down. All three of Lind kids ended up being sick which was terrible because they were sick, but it was nice for us because they were very docile, calm and sleepy. Once we made it, the Linds dropped me off at my friend Lydia's house where I was staying.

Fun with friends
2016 started off well

Lots of jamming happened, lots
New Year's Eve rolled around and we got together with a few other missionary families to celebrate; it was a fun time of games, talking, fondue and an after midnight viewing of the newest Mission Impossible! During the celebration, I got to hang out with Jonathan and Steven, some other friends who live in Kinshasa. One of the highlights from that night was getting to sit down and actually talk to Aunt Katherine. Aunt Katherine is a missionary in Kinshasa who grew up here in Vanga. She's more than that though, she's my role model, she's a story teller, encourager, counselor, and listener. We talked about lots of different things from future plans to the difficulty's of being a walking, talking, white dollar sign .
The Brit, Dread Pirate Jon, Me, Dia, and Anna

Through a series of email with a friend in Kinshasa, I discover that one Dread Pirate Jonathan had no clue what a dutch baby was and that I, Nancy Rice, was really bad at describing them. Thus, we decided to rectify the situation when I was in Kinshasa by having a dutch baby brunch. It turns out that not only did Dread Pirate Jonathan not know what a dutch baby was, but the whole Hochstetler family and Steven the Brit did not know either! There were delicious, hot dutch babies, British-made tea, and homemade syrup. It was a wonderful culinary adventure for all and I am happy to report that it was a successful brunch. If you haven't had a dutch baby before, I suggest you try one but be careful when you ask for someone to make a dutch baby for you...
Leaving the hospital like a celeb

Sydney is glad to have a brother!
Speaking of babies, January 15, Zachary Louis Potter was welcomed into this planet after being rejected by the others for being just too cute. He weighed 3.5 kilos and was 20.5 inches long. Sydney seems to be adjusting well to having a little brother, but we'll see as she realizes the permanency of this little human. The following is a poem I wrote about this baby whole thing:
Sydney sees Zack for the 1st time.


Medley of a Mind
by Nancy Rice

I look down,
another goodbye
another reason to cry

Cuteness galore
I still have to walk out that door
Wrinkled ears
Jumble of fears

He won’t know me
Who could this Nounou be?
Won’t know I came
won’t even say my name

I’ll see him grow
  I’ll see him throw
 I’ll see him learn
I’ll see him turn

He won’t recognize
but he’ll grow in size
He’ll hear stories of our times together
but it will not be like my tether

The tether
to be altogether
for special smiles
I’ll travel miles

Drowsily rocking
Baby squawking
Small Fry

I hold him
I love him
More tears will be shed because of him
He’ll be worth it

Friday, November 6, 2015

Dazed by Drama

Stunned. Numb. I was stupefied. When people would ask me how I was doing, I couldn’t give them a straight answer; instead I resorted to relaying the facts: A couple weekends ago, the missionaries who are invested in Vanga held a retreat in order to be refreshed, renewed and refocus our mission and vision. Lydia, a missionary kid from Kinshasa, who also happens to be one my friends was here on vacation.

One morning while my family, Lydia and I were getting ready to go to the retreat, Benvenu, our cook said to me, “Nancy, I just heard this morning that there was woman found dead. She was a student at ISTM (the nursing school). She was found this morning dumped in someone’s yard.” I stopped gathering my things, confused. Did I hear him correctly? Murder in Vanga sounds more like a mystery novel than real life. I snapped out my thoughts and thanked him for informing.

Later at breakfast, it had been confirmed, that morning a young woman’s body was found beaten around the head dumped on mission property (which is the land around the hospital and the missionaries’ houses as well as several schools). But who did it and why? We didn’t have much information, but as is common in Vanga, news comes in spurts and isn’t always reliable. Slowly, news trickled in and a couple days later we had the actual story.

It was an act of passion. It all started off with one man and two women. The man was married to woman #1 who worked as a nurse at the hospital. However, he was having an affair with woman #2 who was working at the hospital as a nursing intern. Somehow woman #1 got wind that her husband wasn’t being as loyal as she thought and decided to investigate. She confronted her husband and they decided that woman #2 needed to go. Together they went to her house and killed her. They, then, took her body and hid it in their house, only to be disposed the next day. Both Bonnie and Clyde were reprimanded and last I heard they were waiting a hearing.
Now, I know there’s been some social media posts circulating around about Dad and his potential arrest but here are the facts: Visas. They’re an interest document and also a key factor in this whole story. When we arrived, my parents and I came on a tourist visas with the plan to get our long-term missionary visas while we were here. When we arrived, the head of the DGM in Vanga informed us that he needed to fill out some paperwork before we shipped our passports to Kinshasa. The week of crazy also happened to be the week that our visas needed to be renewed. We made arrangements with Matthew Lind, a missionary in Kinshasa, to take our passports back to the Kinshasa DGM after his 3-day visit here.

(While writing this, I was interrupted by a whacking sound coming from our front steps. My dad and I ran over to our front door and sure enough, our night guard was killing a poisonous green snake! My mother advice, “Beware of whackings!”#missionarylife)

On the Monday before sending our passports, Dad ran into the head of Vanga DGM in the hospital. When asked the price for the paperwork, he assured Dad that it would be $10 per person and that he would send the paperwork that afternoon. Well, he didn’t show up till Wednesday morning and gave Dad a bill for $1050, which is 18 times the total price before! My dad told him that this was unreasonable and would need to talk to the authorities in Kinshasa. Not knowing the impending doom, my dad went ahead and sent our passports with Matthew. Late that afternoon, the DGM scouted out my father who was in the middle of our weekly missionary meeting. When the meeting was finish, my dad went out and talk with him. The head of DGM was furious that my dad had sent on the passports without paying. My dad calmly told him that he was waiting for confirmation from the authorities that this bill was accurate, which infuriated the DGM officer more. At that point, he announced to Dad, that he was under arrest. One of the other missionaries then suggested that they go speak with the AG (2nd, or 1st depending on who you ask, in command here in Vanga). On their way, they got news that the AG had already left work. The people there told the head of Vanga DGM, that he needed to wait until the next morning to have the meeting.

The next morning, Dad showed up for the meeting. The AG tried to convince the two DGM officers that they needed to back off. Then, the DGM said that Dad needed to be on house which the AG would not allow. The AG was going on about how important Dad was to the well-being and functioning of the hospital, when Dad got a phone call. It was the hospital calling Dad about an emergency! The DGM decided that Dad could go but needed to come right back so that they could talk with him and the head of the hospital, Dr. Mpoo.

When Dad exited the hospital, there were two DGM officials waiting to escort him to the meeting. At the meeting, Dr. Mpoo starting going off on the DGM and when Dad tried to cut in, Dr. Mpoo told Dad to let him deal with it. After a while, the DGM excused Dad to go home and continued to talk to Dr. Mpoo.

The next day, the DGM sent what looked like a signed confession that Dad broke the law by not having his passport at all times. Dad refused to take it from their messenger and sent him away. At that same time, Dad received an e-mail with the actual paperwork he needed that cost only $50 per person. He sent on a copy of the real paperwork and since then all has been quiet on the subject.
P.S. We heard today that this was all highly illegal and that the missionaries in Kinshasa had report this. They were supposed to file a complaint, but the high-ranking official from C.B.C.O (the Baptist organization) wouldn’t write it. Sadly, the system here is very corrupt and it’s hard for justice to reign.

Normally, after relaying these long stories, the people who would ask me how I was doing would be satisfied and I could go back to lying in bed staring at my mosquito net. I knew I should be feeling feelings, but I didn’t. There was too much. It was bewildering. One on hand, I should be scared for my dad who was in trouble and could go to jail, but he wasn’t scared and didn’t feel like they had the authority to do anything. Then, people who message me would be concerned about Dad and confused on what on earth was going on. My own personal experience of the injustice and criminal activity of the DGM kept bobbing to the surface. There were so many should and ought to feel this way and that. But I didn’t. It didn’t feel real. I couldn’t feel anything towards it.

But there were some highlights to the retreat we had, the main one for me was having Jonathan and Lydia here. Jonathan is another MK, we met back at Greenlake a year ago, but didn’t really get to know each other until we moved here. He is working in Kinshasa with the famous Aunt Katherine and Uncle Wayne Niles. Aunt Katherine was a former Fountain. He visit here every so often to hang out at retreats, work, and jump into the Kwilu, usually from 30 feet in air, hanging from a branch! Lydia is MK who lives in Kinshasa as well. She’s in a very similar situation as me and we’ve become fast friends! The three of us would spend hours, after the retreat was over sitting on a porch swing talking about everything under sun. We connected in ways that I think is unique to us. I am so thankful for them and their beautiful souls!
Just the sunset from our yard...

P.S. I’m sorry this was so late. I had it all written up and was waiting to post it on Wednesday, but life got busy, I turned 18 and we’re all getting ready for the big inauguration of the salle technique at ISTM, the nursing school. 

Sunday, September 13, 2015

When the Lonely Meet

Lonely. Surrounded by tons of people. But. Lonely.
A People Person. Surrounded by tons of people. But. Searching.
Talkative. Surrounded by tons of people. But. Quiet.
An Extrovert. Surrounded by tons of people. But. Introverting.
Lonely. Surrounded by tons of people. But. Lonely.

Together. Two Women. And. Together.
The smell of beignets. Two Women. And. Conversation.
Luku* Learning. Two Women. And. Laughter.
Italian Culture. Two Women.  And.  Discoveries.
Together. Two Women. And. Together

Wait, details…

Lila. My Friend. She’s. A Nurse.
Dark Red Hair. My Friend. She’s. Congolese.
God-loving. My Friend. She’s. Encouraging.
Kituba. My Friend. She’s. Teaching.
Lila. My Friend. She’s. Lila

Ahhh, but…

Hard. New Friendships. Are. Work.
Language. New Friendships. Are. Difficult.
 Sharing. New Friendships. Are. Touchy.
Slow. New Friendships. Are. A Snail.
Hard. New Friendships. Are. Work.

*Luku—A traditional Congolese food also known as FuFu.
Are you smiling??
Of course!!!

Monday, September 7, 2015

A Walking, White, Dollar Sign

          “Are you single or married?” asks the tall, slender nursing student with a thin mustache. We are standing beside sandy path in front of male nurse’s dorm. We had, just a moment ago, been talking quite normally. I hesitate not sure if I should tell the truth, very Christian-like…..
“Uh, single; but I am too young to get married. I am not getting married for a long time, several years from now. I am too young, now.” I explain, waving my arms, avoiding eye contact.
          Pause. Let me stop here and explain a little about Congolese culture. As far as I understand it, the age that a girl is ripest for marriage is 18. 18! At that point, if you are interested in a girl, you voice your interest. If the girl accepts, you must go to her parents and talk about the bride price. You save up and once you pay the price, you can continue with the proper procedures to get married. There's no real official dating period, you're friends, maybe, and then you get married. Okay, play.
          He scratches his head, “Oh hmm, that’s interesting. So, I am looking for a wife.” At this point, I kind of have an idea where this might be heading and start shifting from one foot to another. I hear a goat’s death-like baaa in the distance.
 I smile as I slowly back away, “Oh really, how nice!!!”
 He interrupts, trying to get to the point before I disappeared “And I was thinking…”
“Oh, No, no, no!! There is so many girls here!!!” I say, gesturing around to the village. Now, I turn and start walking. “But!” I swat the air, “Nah, nah, nah!”
          That was the first of many similar “proposals.” Men of different ages, from different parts of the village, and different life situations tell me they're looking for a wife. They never come straight out and ask me the actual question, they just kind of lead up to it and by that time I’m gone.

          “Mbote.” (hello) An older man says to Sydney as we’re walking on a sandy path next to a football (aka soccer) field.
          I look at Syndey, “Pesa Papa mbote, Sydney!” (Say hello to papa)
 She puts out her hand, “Bote!” He turns to me, I notice that he’s probably in his 30s,
          “What’s her name?”
I looking down at Sydney whose on my hip, “Sydney. Her name is Sydney.”
          He looks at her and smiles with a bit toothless grin, “Ahhh, Yney. And you?”
I look at him, “Me, my name is Nancy.” We shake hands.
          “Are you her mother?”
I laugh, “No, I watch her while her parents are working. She’s like my niece.”
          “Ah, I see, I see and are you married?”
I pause, not again…”Yes, I am.” (I promise you, my parents didn't teach me to lie.)
          “Ah, okay, how many kids do you have?”
“None yet, but I have Sydney, she’s like my niece.”
          “Yes, yes, well, I am looking for a wife.”
 I sigh, seriously. “That’s great, but I am already married.”
          “Yes, but I am looking for a wife.”
I start turning away wanting to get away from him, “Well, Sydney’s very tired, we have to go.”                      “But…”
“Nah, nah, nah, we must go, I’m sorry.” I say as I swat the humid air.

          This didn’t make much sense to me while I walked home, but then later, Ryan explained it to me. Polygamy is a thing here. That may have been it, or it may have been he didn't understand why I would be married and not have any kids... Every time, I’ve seen him since then, he’s been very demanding and scowls at me.
          Why aren’t you flattered Nancy? Why are so frustrated and annoyed at these men? Because these men don’t know anything about me. Because some of them only know my name because a kid just told him.  Because they know nothing about my personality; they don’t know how I love to laugh uncontrollably, but I don’t often. Because they don’t how I love to eat good food with good friends and share stories. They don’t know how I long to heal the pain of the world and that I feel it pressing on my heart everyday. They don’t how many sisters I have or that I have “adopted” siblings. They don’t know me. They only know that my skin is white; which is thought of as beautiful and associated with intelligence. They only know that my skin is white; which means I have money. They only know that my skin is white; which means I have opportunities. My skin is white. That’s all.
          It’s about my skin. It’s literally skin-deep. It’s actually feels more like an insult than anything else. It’s just frustrating, I would have liked to get to know these guys, to be friends or at least acquaintances; but I’m just a resource to them, not much more. I am a walking, white dollar sign.
          Now, whenever I walk past “hot spots” places where I know they are a lot of men who have or are likely to propose, I walk fast. I don’t want to dawdle and take my time because no matter how nicely it starts, it always ends up with the same, “I am looking for a wife.” thing.
          Last night, I was walking with Shannon and Sydney back to their house. We were walking past the white dorm buildings again. The same young nursing student called out to me from his seat on a bench next to the path. “Why do you always walk past here so fast?”
          “Because I am always late.”(Very white-rabbit-from-Alice-in-Wonderland-y) I reply slowing down a bit. (This time I'm not lying, I promise)
          “Late for what!? This is not friendly, it’s not nice!!” (Now, it’s important to remember here, that I am in Africa and being late and time have little importance here. Relationships are key. At the time, I kind of forgot about culture differences…)
          I spin around, heat springing to my face, he’s calling me a liar, “I am late because I have to watch Sydney while her parents are working!”
          “Ah, no!!!! This is not nice!!” I spin back around, I couldn’t say another word. I continued on to the Potter's with tears in my eyes.

           Cultural differences are hard, ya’ll. They are very hard. It’s a learning experience. With God’s help, I hope to learn slowly. Sometimes I can laugh about it, but sometimes I have to cry about it. Please keep me in your prayers as today, I must go talk to the nursing student and explain why acted as I did and apologize. It won’t be easy, but then again sometimes things aren't…

P.S. I don’t know of these guy’s names.
I think this photo pretty accurately explains how I feel right.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

......ESPECIALLY in Africa

     I scream, you scream, we all SCREAM for ice cream ESPECIALLY in Africa.We had our first experiment in making ice cream here in Vanga!! We made both vanilla and chocolate/peanut butter! Aunt Katherine had brought some heavy whipping cream from Kinshasa with her and voila ice cream!!!! It was delicious, the perfect frozen treat!!! It didn't quite have the same texture as ice cream, but if you mixed the vanilla and chocolate/peanut together you got pretty close!!! We hopefully will be making it again soon!!!
Peanut Butter and Chocolate Ice Cream!

Vanilla Full-Creme Ice Cream Flakes

We LOVE ice cream!!!! GAHHHHhhhhhhhh!!!!

Here's the two mixed together!!