When I was a kid, I only saw snow three times in 21 years of life.
The first was when I was about five, and my mother made something she called “snow ice cream,” which just meant that she used the snow for the ice and almost certainly not for the cream. It was tasty, and I had the pleasant illusion that I was eating snow. This was in central Texas.
Then there was nary a flake for about ten years, and suddenly one high-school winter we had another snow. We went outside and threw snowballs at one another for about ten minutes before the white ice turned to green grass.