A Love Letter to Creemees
And to Vermont summers in all their river-swimming, creemee-fueled glory
Hello and happy Monday!
I had a mellow weekend in Brooklyn — mostly spent by myself, writing and walking and such. The only time I left the borough was on Saturday, when I joined my friend Devra for lunch in Flushing, a vibrant, diverse, densely populated neighborhood in Queens. We spread out our meal between four different spots to try as many flavors as we could, from Uyghur cumin lamb to Sichuan pickled long beans to Shanghainese pan-fried pork buns and more. I spent a total of $32 — $37.80 if you count the subway rides.
Every time I explore the cuisines of a new neighborhood in New York, I’m reminded of how much there is to discover within these five boroughs, and how I’ll never come close to exhausting the culinary well of this city. Today, though, I want to write about a food I return to again and again — one that holds more nostalgia than novelty. This is a love letter to creemees, and to the pleasures of summer in Vermont.
On Creemees (and Vermont)
My brothers, parents, and I were all born in different states, and I’ve always secretly felt like I won the imaginary competition by being born in Vermont (my Maine-born brother is shaking his fist!). Although I only lived there full-time for a few months as a newborn while my dad completed his master’s in Burlington, I’ve always claimed Vermont as my own.
Almost every summer, when school let out in Ohio, we packed up the minivan and drove north, where we rented the same house at the base of Mount Abraham. There was a tire swing hanging from a tree in the front yard and a splintery playset with a yellow slide out back, framed by mountains. We played outside until we wore ourselves out — sticky, grass-stained, and spent. When we weren’t at home, we watched Circus Smirkus under the big blue-and-white-striped tent, ate fried dough at the Addison County Fair with animal face paint still on our cheeks, and attended Shelburne Farms camp, where we collected warm eggs from the chicken coop and met a newborn calf.
I’ll never forget when a high school classmate who grew up in Vermont told me I wasn’t a real Vermonter — I was a summerer, a visitor passing through. She was right, I suppose, but my spirit protested!
The gift of being a summerer, if that’s what I was and am, is seeing the state through a softened lens. To this day, Vermont exists for me as a place untouched by Real Life, suspended in a pink cloud of creemee-fueled childhood summers. New York is where I go to work and doctor’s appointments and the DMV— where I vote and pay taxes and file for health insurance. Vermont is where I play. And nothing captures that sense of play more aptly than a creemee.
If “creemee” is a new word for you, let me enlighten you: creemees are Vermont’s answer to soft serve — cold, sweet, and ubiquitous across the state. What makes a creemee different from soft serve? That depends on whom you ask. Some Vermonters will shrug and say there’s no difference at all. Others will gasp that you dared compare the two, insisting on the superiority of the former. Personally, I remain confused. But I do know this: the most beloved creemee flavor, and the one that defines the genre, can rarely be found in regular old soft serve form. That flavor is maple. It’s the real stuff, too — caramelly and rich, tapped from nearby trees, boiled down into liquid amber, then whipped into a silky, milky base.
Sometimes the best creemees are where you least expect them — like at a nondescript gas station on my parents’ route north from Massachusetts. There, among the racks of windshield wiper fluid, air fresheners, and Zyns, you’ll find a creemee machine behind the counter, serving one flavor and one flavor only. Skip the beef jerky. Get the creemee. Especially if it’s maple that day.
For me, the most nostalgic creemee stand in all of Vermont is the Village Creeme Stand (not a typo) in Bristol. It looks like the storybook ideal of a small-town ice cream shop — bite-sized and bright yellow, with flower pots and picnic tables outside. It’s staffed by local teens, sweet and spotty, navigating their first jobs. The service isn’t always seamless, but that’s part of the charm of a community-oriented business, one that nurtures its own.
The late longtime owner, Tom Wallace, once told Seven Days that “C-R-E-E-M-E is the right way,” pure and simple. Again, I don’t know what to believe, but I do love a passionate opinion — especially when it concerns ice cream.
Wallace passed away in October 2023, and the Village Creeme Stand remained closed the following summer. But to my great relief — and, I’m sure, to the delight of all of Addison County — the Wallace family has since reopened it. My order is a maple cone (surprise!) or maple-black raspberry twist if it’s on the menu, or vanilla, dipped in chocolate Magic Shell. I like how, when it’s still cold, the chocolatey shell shatters when you bite into it. Whatever I order tastes best on a hot day, fresh from the river swimming hole, water still drying on my skin.
In New York, the closest equivalent to a creemee stand is a Mister Softee truck — always idling somewhere, the cones handed over with practiced speed. I’ll grab one on a hot day without complaint, but it’s not the same. The soft serve is lighter, there’s no maple on the menu, and there’s certainly no quiet moment to enjoy it. Maybe I’m not a real Vermonter, but I still wax rhapsodic about creemees and count down to my first cone of the season like it’s a holiday.
Thank you for reading! Wishing you a calm week. Maybe get yourself an ice cream cone? Tomorrow is July!
More soon,
Phoebe
Recent love letters:
Ah, the creeme. There’s a shop in North Cambridge called Mama’s that serves a maple soft serve. They tend to run out which is un understandable. I’ve resorted to pouring maple syrup on vanilla ice cream which is a quick fix when the craving comes along. I’m so happy the Village Creeme has reopened!