The road from root beer to ginsicle

By Michelle Gourley

It was a screaming hot day in August. The kind when you see a wavy mirage of water constantly disappearing on the road ahead of you. I was on my home turf in Nova Scotia, plastered together with my husband and his two kids in a sand-filled rental car. We were dazed and parched and high on sunscreen fumes. Lukewarm lemonade sloshed untouched in cans at our feet—we needed more, something chilly and sweet to distract us from our prickly, sunburned skin.

I began reminiscing about root beer popsicles.

I was never one to guzzle pop, but I loved the taste of root beer, and then to find it condensed and frozen was somehow infinitely better than drinking it. The texture of densely packed crystals, almost the opposite of ice cream, was my favourite post-beach treat as a kid, and I would have clawed my way through any corner store freezer to get one. The fluorescent orange variety and fudgesicles inevitably outnumbered root beer by ten to one, making them a hard-won victory.

But it seemed that my childhood raison d’être had gone the way of the pterodactyl, and I hadn’t seen a root beer popsicle since moving to Vancouver twenty years ago. The kids, at the tender ages of eight and ten, had never even tried one. Their eyes widened at the mythical popsicle stories.

“Only fifty cents?”

“You were allowed to have how many?”

“Better than a fudgesicle?!”

“And then you never saw them again?”

Maybe they don’t make them anymore, I surmised.

By the time we pulled onto the gravel in front of a battered roadside store, they wanted to find one. They had to find one. We had barely parked and they were a blur of flip-flops, the screen door flapping and banging behind them.

I could hear distant squealing from inside the store.

“Root beer popsicles, root beer popsicles,” they chanted with the same frenzied zeal normally reserved for unicorns and mermaid sightings.

I was stunned. My root beer popsicles? After all this time?

It seemed strangely small in my adult hands. The white wrapper had a fading brown logo, and the packaging was much too loose around the popsicle. Judging from the dusty cans of evaporated milk and baked beans that lined the store shelves, those popsicles may have been there, lounging in frosty eternity, since my carefree childhood days.

I ripped away the flimsy packaging and held tight to the double stick, bracing myself for disappointment. My first bite was an icy, sweet chunk of root beer perfection: exactly as I remembered it.

It was no surprise to learn that the coveted treat of my youth was invented by a child. In 1905, a forgetful boy named Frank Epperson left his fruit soda and stir stick outside. The temperature dropped dramatically overnight, so when young Frank went scampering back to the porch, he was thrilled to discover that his forgotten drink had been transformed into a frozen treat.

The boy grew up and had a family of his own. In 1923, still experimenting with his “Epsicle” invention, Epperson applied for a patent for his “frozen ice on a stick.” His kids renamed it Popsicle, the name stuck, and the idea was embraced by generations of hot and dusty children.

Last summer I did some experimenting of my own. Having slightly hippy tendencies, I often try to “improve” recipes by cutting down on this or eliminating that, and I foolishly thought I could make my own root beer popsicles. They would be better: all-natural, and a solid hit with the kids. I started gathering the daunting list of ingredients that comprise authentic root beer, tracking them down like a police dog at the airport. I was on the case, making long-distance phone calls to unknown locales. I inspected countless jars of strange twigs and bark in Chinatown. I looked fearlessly into the dusty corners of every spice rack in town. Sassafras, tansy, wintergreen leaf, sarsaparilla root, star anise, fennel seeds, licorice root, vanilla—I had them all.

Satisfied that Project Root Beer had taken shape, I put my biggest pot on the stove and cranked the heat. A small fortune worth of curious herbs and roots cluttered the counter. A jar of honey stood in place of sugar. (“Why use white sugar when you can use honey, man?” my hippy angel whispered.)

The water came to a roaring boil, and I dumped in every last leaf and twig. Feeling smug that my popsicle success was just a matter of time, I waited for the darkening mixture to reduce by half. Still too watery? Did it need sugar after all?

I stirred in my best brown, the peace and love porridge-topper. Better.

I let the concoction cool, telling myself that the flavours would really bloom. The strained mixture was the colour of weak coffee as I filled the popsicle moulds. The nose-wrinkling smell of Old Spice aftershave permeated the kitchen. Into the freezer they went.

The next day I slid them out of their frosty cases and presented them to the kids.

“What are these?” Their eyes narrowed at the suspiciously light and icy appearance.

“Root beer popsicles. Homemade root beer popsicles,” I told them.

Skeptical, they nibbled cautiously. No reaction. They were trying to tell me without telling me … they hated them. “Guess I’ll keep trying, huh?” I gently snatched them away before they could be critiqued.

“Sorry, they’re just nothing like the real ones we had in Nova Scotia.”

In the kitchen, alone, I tried one. They were crap. Watery, slightly musty, and the texture was off. Way off. Back to my popsicle lab I went. This time, I marched into a u-brew shop and bought a small, inky bottle of root beer concentrate. Back at home, I whisked together one tablespoon of the thick brown liquid, one cup of my finest white death sugar and three cups of water. Filling the moulds with the intensely flavoured mixture, I knew success was sadly imminent.

And the kids loved them. They demanded more, sharing them with their friends and devouring every last sugary, un-natural one of them.

Michelle Gourley will be starting a root beer popsicle support group.

Inspired to make your own popsicles? Click here: