Gemini Season, Vanilla, & Memory

Gemini Season: The End of Spring

Today marks the beginning of Summer and the beginning of Cancer season. It’s also the end of Gemini season - which is my favorite. My birthday season. That final bloom of spring before summer hits—a time of flowers, curiosity, chaos, and sweetness. It’s a season of pollination, flirtation, and movement. Gemini asks questions, stirs the air, and reminds us that life is meant to be experienced from multiple angles.

I didn’t know my grandmother Noel was a Gemini too—not until after she died. Her name appears everywhere at Christmastime, but it’s in May and June that I feel her most.

We shared more than a zodiac sign, it turns out. We both loved beautiful things. She was the first woman in my life to nurture my girly side—lipstick, hot tools, powder, heels. She let me play with all of it. In some ways, she felt more like a big sister than a grandmother. She filled in gaps my mother couldn’t. And like my mother, she struggled. But more on that later.

Why It Took So Long to Make Vanilla

Vanilla and I have a complicated relationship. I’ve always been a chocolate girly. My first intro to vanilla was probably a twist cone with rainbow sprinkles. Or maybe it was the vanilla tucked inside a Haagen-Dazs or Dove bar. Even then, I had a very particular taste.

And no—Haagen-Dazs does not have the best vanilla. I do.

But it took me a while to get here. Vanilla can be boring if done wrong, and I didn’t want to put out something mid. It had to feel personal. Intentional. Precise.

I modeled my version after a life-changing vanilla frozen yogurt that I tried last year—hands down the best vanilla-anything I’ve ever tasted. Mine starts with a classic custard base, flavored with real vanilla bean and sweetened with either honey or maple. It's stunning with a drizzle of olive oil.

Vanilla is also the foundation for most of my other flavors. I don’t use it in my sorbets or the toasted pumpkin seed ice cream—it doesn’t belong there. But when it does, I use it with care. That’s the thing about vanilla: it leaves no room to hide. The quality of the ingredients makes or breaks it.

And in this case, quality means personal history.

Symbolism, Astrology, and the Sacred Simplicity of Vanilla

Culturally, “vanilla” has become shorthand for basic. But real vanilla—the seed pod of a tropical orchid—is anything but. It’s floral, heady, grounding, sacred. Just like Gemini energy, it holds multitudes.

Honey, golden and sun-drenched, is associated with Gemini. So are wildflowers, which are basically the embodiment of June’s wild charm. That’s why I chose wildflower honey this month—to celebrate spring’s peak and Gemini’s complexity.

Vanilla is also native to the Americas. I didn’t know that until I caught the scent of a vanilla orchid at Planting Fields in Long Island and stopped in my tracks. That one moment led me to learn about its Indigenous roots. The beans I use now are fair trade and sourced from Madagascar, but I’m still on the hunt for a good Mexican vanilla—something closer to home.

Gemini season, to me, is about honoring sweetness and shadow, clarity and contradiction. Vanilla fits that duality.

Ingredients: Sweeteners with a Story

I’ve experimented with four vanilla bases:

• Vanilla Coconut Sugar

• Vanilla Honey

• Vanilla Maple

• Vanilla Coconut (dairy-free)

My favorite is the custard base with vanilla bean and honey. Second favorite swaps honey for maple syrup. Both sweeteners are simple, but their flavors come through strong—and that’s one of my favorite things about this project. You can taste the integrity of every ingredient.

When I’m upstate, I can source honey and maple from local farms I’ve known since childhood. In the city, I rely on the Union Square Greenmarket. Maple vendors vary—Vermont is the most reliable. I wish more came from New York. But honey? That’s a joy. Andrew’s Honey places hives in different NYC neighborhoods, so you can buy honey made from Bushwick bees.

And there’s meaning in the sweeteners themselves. Honey and honeybees weren’t native to the Americas before European contact. Maple syrup was. So I offer both—a post-colonial and pre-colonial option. It feels honest.

Ice Cream as Storytelling

This flavor isn’t just about taste—it’s about time, place, and inheritance. Ice cream is the medium through which I tell stories. Each scoop holds emotional data. The flavor choices, the seasonal ingredients, the memories—all of it means something.

Vanilla, especially, carries history. It’s the base of so many of my creations. And this version, made during Gemini season, is a tribute. To sweetness. To imperfection. To the women who raised me.

This is more than a flavor—it’s an offering.

Memory and Addiction: A Complicated Inheritance

Apparently, vanilla was my Grandma Noel’s favorite. I didn’t know that until recently. I called my grandfather before Gemini season started to ask, and he couldn’t remember. My dad thinks it was vanilla.

It fits.

My relationship with her was beautiful—and fractured. She and my grandpa lived close to us, so I have more memories of her and my grandpa than my mom’s parents. She gave me things my mom wouldn’t—heels, nail polish, makeup, pink dresses. She scratched my back in church with her long nails until I nearly fell asleep. Her house smelled like memory. She had two Siamese cats named Salt and Pepper. I loved her so much.

And still, we grew distant. There was “the incident.” A Christmas we spent in the hospital because of her drinking. She never apologized. I never got closure. And I’ve never quite been the same.

Addiction threads through my bloodline like a curse. My grandmother. My mother. Me. I have a nicotine addiction. I enjoy drinking, but I fear becoming an alcoholic. Sometimes that fear feels louder than the pleasure.

I blacked out on my birthday this year. It brought everything to the surface again.

Food has been complicated for all of us too—my mom, Noel, my abuela. Disordered eating, food as comfort, food as control. My mom never understood that part of us. Or maybe she did and just couldn’t face it.

It’s strange to be writing this while sipping wine. But my therapist has told me it’s okay to drink and write, to feel and make. He’ll raise a red flag if something’s off. I trust him.

So this vanilla—this ice cream—is a small, golden act of healing. A way to remember the softness alongside the ache. A way to honor Noel without glossing over the harm. A way to tell a story that’s still being written.

This one’s for her.

And trust me—my vanilla is good.

It’s good because it’s personal.