By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
My daughter said I should write about ice cream. She gave me this advice one night while we were standing in the backyard, looking up at the sky. I pondered the idea and tried to see where it would take me. I ended up with a stream of consciousness that, honestly, was more enjoyable than I anticipated. I don’t think my daughter would have expected the route I took, but then again, I’m not sure I did either. Nothing like an unexpected summertime journey, am I right? For the sake of your interest in reading, I hope you agree.
I don’t know if, where you are from, making homemade ice cream is a thing. If it isn’t, I weep for you—especially if you have any sort of sweet tooth at all. The summer heat in these parts is enough to make anyone long for something cool, and to make it sweet, rich, and freezing is all the better. I personally have a sweet tooth the size of a mammoth tusk, and I like my sweets the richer, the better. I have always generally enjoyed homemade ice cream, but when my husband and I started inventing our own recipes, the game—she was changed.
He and I enjoy cooking in general, and even more so when we can tweak recipes to suit our tastes. When we took a basic ice cream recipe and began to morph it into our own flavors, magical things started to happen. Not only did we bump up the richness of our mixture exponentially, but we let our imaginations run wild with the flavors we wanted to create. We started with what might be considered a more basic concept: chocolate and peanut butter. We made rich peanut butter ice cream with chunks of chocolate scattered through it. We liked it; however, the temperature made the chocolate hard and, while delicious, a bit crunchier than anticipated.
We were undeterred. We decided to branch out, put on our creative pants, and came up with what we aptly named “Apple Pie à la Mode.” We started with a delicious vanilla, like you’d put on a slice of apple pie. Then we swirled in the apple pie filling with its chunks of fruit, cinnamon, and brown sugary goodness. But no—I was not satisfied. I was bound and determined to make it truly reminiscent of pie. We baked a pie crust, broke it into chunks, and incorporated it into the mixture. I am not attempting to toot my own horn, but—sweet Mary and Joseph (as my favorite exclamatory phrase goes, especially for something delicious)—it was incredible. If you love a slice of apple pie with a scoop of rich vanilla on top, I daresay you could have done quite the damage to a bowl (or three) of this glorious concoction.
I suppose I have definitely done what my daughter asked. I realize now that I’ve just rambled on about ice cream unapologetically for several paragraphs. And while I do enjoy the stuff—especially the homemade version—there is more to it than just good taste. There is something inherently nostalgic about ice cream, and I hadn’t really pondered it until my daughter gave me the topic.
One of the first things that comes to mind is a commercial that my favorite brand of ice cream put out years ago. It had a grandpa-esque voice singing about, and I quote, “I remember our old country home, clean fresh air and flowers growing in the field along the path beside our swimming hole.” I mean, my days! Whoever was in charge of that ad campaign deserves a raise. They could have been trying to sell raisin and turnip-flavored ice cream, and though I despise them both, that commercial was so effective that part of me would have wanted to give it a try.
I don’t know if I should credit the brilliant advertising of that specific ice cream brand, but to me, that is what ice cream—especially homemade—tastes like. It tastes like all the imagery in that ad. It is golden-hour sunlight causing happy barefoot children to glow as they swim in streams and swing beneath sprawling oaks. That cool, creamy bite feels like the whole family gathered around a broad porch, with kids running through sprinklers and giggles echoing through the yard. Maybe I am waxing a tad poetic, but that is very literally what it feels like. It is standing around the old ice cream maker, making sure the rock salt supply is ample. It’s when the turning starts to stall and sputter, and you know it’s almost time to enjoy the delicious treat. That feeling is palpable—that generations have shared in this same tradition summer after summer, the only change being whether the churn was motorized or hand-cranked. The feeling remains the same: glowing light, smiles, and spoons filled with the carefree joy of sweet summertime. God bless it. May we find such uncomplicated bliss far more often than a creamy moment on a summer front porch.
Prose and Possibilities 