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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 7.
One of my first published stories as a budding newspaper reporter was about the business of the Baltimore snowball stand. I was 21, driving around the city asking small business owners about the economics of selling shaved ice seasonally.
Of course, what I ended up learning was much more interesting and human. It’s a business sure, but behind the snowball is craft, passion, a lot of history, and communities that care deeply about the tradition.
Today, it’s exactly 20 summers later. Since that story ran in 2006, I’ve seen lots of shaved ice, in lots of places, and learned that many have their own versions with equally devoted followings. So, as I return to writing and start a publication of my own, it’s only fitting that I give shaved ice the reverence it deserves—this time through the eyes of a few people who love it, in all its many forms.
Hope you enjoy 🍧.
It’s July 4, 2026. I’m in Philadelphia. It’s 100 degrees and humid. Between Paraguay v. France and the Birthplace of America celebrating the nation’s 250th anniversary, everyone is outside.
I’m sure this will shock no one here: I go on a quest to find Philadelphia’s version of flavored ice in a cup.
Driving around Philly got me thinking about all the shaved ice traditions around the world. They’re all a little different, and people are particular about their ice!
Presenting:
Snowball | Baltimore, United States
The Baltimore snowball is pretty famous at this point. Every summer across the region, snowball stands big and small crop up to sell the fluffy, finely shaved ice confection, soaked in flavored sugar syrup and topped with marshmallow cream.
My friend Jessica moved to Baltimore moons ago, but she remembers her first snowball like it was yesterday. In Kansas, where she was born, you got snowcones at the circus, and the flavor was, well . . . rainbow.
So when she ordered her first Maryland snowball, that’s what she asked for: rainbow. She was not prepared for the flavor cacophony in store.
See, every snowball syrup—egg custard (yellow), tutti frutti (red), skylight (blue)—has a distinct flavor. Mixing them all together is not something you see often (or ever) and apparently not something you repeat.
Makes it pretty hard to forget your first snowball, though.
Piragua | Puerto Rico
We move south into the Caribbean for piragua, the Puerto Rican shaved ice shaped by piragüeros into a pyramid and flavored with tropical fruit syrups like parcha (passion fruit).
Natalia, on her childhood summers in Puerto Rico:
Did you even have one if your mouth and lips weren’t semi-permanently dyed the electric color of the flavor?
Raspados | Mexico
Raspados can be simple: ice scraped by hand and soaked with syrup made from fresh fruit. They can also be wildly elaborate—piles of pineapple, mango, strawberries, condensed milk, chamoy, Tajín, and all manner of sweet, spicy, and sour additions.
Bianca remembers eating raspados as a child in Chicago, bought from the elotero who walked the neighborhood with his cart each summer.
She usually ordered hers simply: “Just scraped ice and your choice of syrup.”
Shave Ice | Hawai‘i
Next stop: Hawaiʻi shave ice. Its roots trace to kakigōri, brought to Hawaiʻi by Japanese immigrants during the plantation era. Today, finely shaved ice is layered with local flavors and toppings like azuki beans, ice cream, or a drizzle of condensed milk.
I got lost in this essay about eating a soursop and lilikoi shave ice in Hilo, topped with haupia cream and sitting on a scoop of poi. The essay’s also a fascinating deep dive into the history of ice in Hawai‘i.
“My first bite is so life-changing that I am tempted to not share my treat with my sister.”
Halúhalò | The Philippines
When I interviewed Erin for Issue 4, she let me look through all her photos from her trip to the Philippines earlier this year. I stumbled on a photo of halúhalò (halo-halo).
There was purple ube ice cream, a slab of flan, bright red jellies, crunchy cereal, and other things I couldn’t immediately identify, all piled into one cup over shaved ice.
Halúhalò means “mix-mix,” which is also the eating instruction. You’re not supposed to politely work your way through the layers. You take a long spoon, dig all the way to the bottom, and churn the ice, milk, fruit, beans, jellies, flan, and whatever else is in there together until every bite has a little bit of everything.
Water Ice | Philadelphia, United States
We end our voyage back in Philly on the 4th of July. I’d asked around to figure out where to go and what to order. I heard that some places use real fruit; the traditional is cherry ice topped with vanilla soft serve; and the strawberries are so good right now (even better than they were last week), so I had to try that one too.
I landed at South Philly Ice in Passyunk Square. Water ice grew out of the Sicilian granita-making traditions Italian immigrants brought to Philadelphia. The ones I tried had enormous chunks of fresh fruit mixed in—black cherries, mango, strawberries (yeah, I had all three).
I was knee-deep in a cup of strawberry lemonade ice when Robert, the manager, showed me the entire box of Champagne mangos they peel and cut up every day to make a batch of the mango ice. It was the perfect way to end my water ice search.
Apparently driving around asking people about ice never gets old 🤷♀️.
What’s the ice in a cup you grew up eating?
For photos and extras, visit Never Precious on Instagram.