We were sitting at one of the long communal tables on the mountain. Our three kids were wedged between my husband and me, helmets dangling by their chin straps from the backs of their chairs, each one packed with gloves and neck warmers to keep the gear contained. Cheeks flushed from the cold, I was doing the familiar lunch shuffle — counting heads, tracking the slow disappearance of a single plate of fries, and keeping an eye on the steady traffic of hands reaching across it. My daughter is 6. She noticed the cookie before I did. At the table next to us sat a little girl holding a cookie roughly the size of her face — thick, glossy, unapologetic. My daughter froze, eyes locked onto it, going still in the way children do when they are deciding whether to want something out loud. She didn’t ask. She didn’t pout. She just looked at me — hopeful, certain that if something good existed nearby, I would know what to do about it. There was no chance I was buying one of those cookies. Like many families who ski here regularly, we had already done our math for the day — the familiar mix of shared food, small workarounds, and whatever could be figured out on the fly to stretch time on the mountain. One shared plate of fries. Enough fuel for another hour, maybe an hour and a half, before the kids would start to fade. A specialty dessert simply wasn’t part of the plan. But I am nothing, if not resourceful. I caught my husband’s eye across the table. We exchanged the look, the one that carries a dozen quiet calculations and says we’re not done yet.  So I did what I always do. I figured it out. I walked over to the drink station near the hot chocolate dispenser, grabbed an empty plastic cup, filled it with whipped cream, tore open a packet of sugar, sprinkled it on top, and stuck in a giant spoon. I returned to the table and set it gently in front of her. “I got you a sundae,” I said. Her face lit up. She accepted it without question or comparison, delighted by the simple fact of it. She dug in happily, feet swinging beneath her chair, utterly satisfied. Across the table, my teenager caught my eye and gave me a look that landed somewhere between an eye roll and a smile. He knew exactly what I was doing. And he appreciated it. That was the moment I understood what I was really doing. Not just on that day, or at that table. But over time. In the way small choices quietly accumulate — what gets stretched, what gets skipped, what gets pushed to “maybe next year.” The sundae worked in that moment, but I knew it wouldn’t always. In a place like this, the math rarely breaks all at once. It wears down gradually, until even careful families begin narrowing what feels possible. And that narrowing isn’t only financial. Even families who can afford the cookie, the team, the season pass feel it when daily life is reshaped around peak weeks, visitor schedules, and experiences designed for people who won’t be here long enough to notice the trade-offs. This is how parents learn to do it. Smoothly. Cheerfully. Without drawing attention to the effort. You redirect. You rename. You make something out of almost nothing and present it as enough. For the moment, it was enough. But that solution has a shelf life. There will come a time when a sundae needs to look like one. When explanations won’t carry as easily. When children begin to notice who has access to what — who signs up without hesitation, who returns season after season, and who treats certain things as a given rather than a choice. That’s the part that lingers. The cookie itself is a small thing. Insignificant, even. But it’s also a signal. It costs about what I’d spend on a full dinner at home. On its own, that isn’t outrageous. But when prices like that become commonplace, they begin to redefine what feels normal and what quietly slips out of reach. Over time, those choices show up far beyond lunch. They shape which parts of life here families can fully take part in and which ones require more judgment. So when locals find themselves adjusting expectations, booking earlier, arriving off-peak, or navigating participation more carefully, I think back to that lunch table. To the steady, practical adjustments families make — not bitterly, not dramatically, but as a matter of course. This isn’t about nostalgia. And it isn’t about entitlement. It’s about whether Park City remains a place that sustains the people who sustain it — those who live here year-round, raise families here, and keep the town running long after visitors leave. Because if Park City is going to remain a real community — and not just a destination — there has to be a place at the table that still feels meant for the people who live here. Heather Bryant is a Park City resident, writer, longtime educator, and mother of three. She writes educational curriculum and essays on parenting, conservation, and the importance of place. The post The sundae that wasn’t (but kind of really was) appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less