I had resisted it for several months. I knew no good would come of it. I would not be able to say no once it started. And yet, I did it anyway. I ordered an ice cream maker.
Not just any ice cream maker, mind you. The deluxe two-quart, automatic, no-ice, no-salt Cuisinart model.
And I couldn't leave it at that. At the online urging of over 500 reviewers, I also got the authentic Ben & Jerry's ice cream recipe book. The book that gives you only three options: a lot of butterfat, more butterfat, and the most butterfat recipes.
To me, summertime is homemade ice cream. I remember sweltering July evenings at my Uncle Bill and Aunt Vivian's house, taking turns hand-cranking the ice cream paddle, as Uncle Bill added ice and salt around the freezing container, and the cream and milk concoction inside magically turned--much too slowly for me--into a mouthful of summer.
Watermelon also spelled summer. Unlike homemade ice cream which was made in precious batches that seemed to be the size of thimbles, and was doled out in delicious but fleeting scoops, watermelon was the one dessert that we kids could have in abundance. The sheer size of the slices was enticing. The contrast between the air temperature of a Virginia summer night and a slice of iced melon was enough to lower your body heat index several points. Add family--particularly my cousin Mike from two houses away--and you not only had a cold treat; you had a competition: spitting seeds. The furthest. With the most accuracy. The highest. The most machine-gun-like.
The one thing both of these delicacies had in common, aside from being sticky and delicious--they were fun, made special by the fact they were seasonal. Because they weren't available every day, they became, by definition, fleeting joys.
So now, well into summer, I fervently gathered the ingredients mandated by Ben & Jerry, chilled them to the requisite temperature, waited a full 24 hours for the freezing insert to freeze solid, and then carefully--and with some tempered glee--whipped the eggs and sugar into a frenzy and combined them with enough fat calories to equal a bag of potato chips, two or three sugared lattes and at least one chocolate cake with cream cheese icing.
And then the magic began. With a click of the "on" switch, the motor began to whir, the freezer compartment began to turn, the paddle swam through the sea of cream and milk. Twenty-five minutes later: ice cream.
It was delicious. It was sinfully caloric. Frighteningly fatty. And altogether summer.
I am resigned to the fact that there will be several more batches this summer, and that, despite future efforts to reduce the butterfat content, they will still be fatty--and delicious. And summer.
This must be why divine providence makes homemade ice cream seasonal. It's certainly what makes it special.
Oh--and I don't want to forget to mention why we're talking about ice cream and watermelon here. Despite the fact that one is sinfully caloric and the other is juicy and messy--they, in my humble opinion, are stress reducers. For me, anyway, it's almost impossible to stress out over a scoop or two of French Vanilla or Orange Dream. Ditto for a cold slice of sweet watermelon.
They transport me back to a simpler time: a time of no schedules, no serious job commitments. A time when the biggest worry might be will it rain on the Fourth of July? Or, will our mothers let us walk--without adults--to the "Little Store" to get Double Colas?
Don't get me wrong. I like a certain amount of order in life. And I love my work. But summer brings back reminders of simple joys--and balance, between what needs to get done, and what is simply fun to get done.
I vote for a balance of both, and wish the same for you as summer stretches into August.
Until next time, thanks for listening.
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