As you’ve probably gathered, there’s a big difference between loving ice cream and wanting to make it. In fact, one of the things that I love about making it is that it is something very few people attempt to do. There’s something about making a pan of brownies or a tray of cookies that feels comfortable to folks at home. They’ve seen their grandmothers do it; they’ve used that iconic red Betty Crocker box mix to make an artificially colored, sunshine-yellow, fancifully frosted birthday cake. There’s nothing too mysterious about that process.
I don’t remember the first time I made ice cream at home or what motivated me. The outcome was obviously very forgettable. In fact, probably the first dozen or so attempts were forgettable (perhaps even repressed). I don’t know what flavors I attempted or where the recipes came from. I know that I owned my little red Cuisinart for a very long time before I even liberated it from its cardboard box.
I do, however, remember the circumstances in which I received the machine. It was the holiday season, and I was spending the majority of my time perusing catalogues, clicking through e-mails, eagerly eating up whatever Williams-Sonoma happened to be pitching at that time.
It was in one such sponsored e-mail that I first saw her: In Santa Claus–suit red was a jolly-looking little ice cream maker. There was even a gift bundle in which she was accompanied by festive jars of hot fudge and seasonally hued sprinkles. I had never owned an ice cream maker—I wasn’t even sure I wanted to make ice cream—but something about that holiday spirit made me hit the ever-so-subtle “Send a Wish List” link.
I typed something along the lines of “A fun project for the new year?” then filled in my mother’s e-mail address and clicked the diminutive digital paper plane. I didn’t think much of it again until the morning of December 25th. All of the gifts had been disrobed of their convivial dressings. One box remained behind the tree, and as the detritus of another successful Noel was being swept up by my father, Rosie approached me with that final package.
I was thrilled, of course, and I welcomed Red into my home with good intentions. But in post-holiday efforts to tidy up, she was stashed on top of the refrigerator for later use. There she lived for several subsequent years, snug in her Styrofoam, separated from her hot fudge and sprinkle buddies, who were given a home in the hospitable pantry and enjoyed in a far more timely fashion.
Perhaps it was intimidation at being indoctrinated into the ice-cream-making fold. Or perhaps I hesitated out of concern that I could damage the experience, lose a little of what made ice cream so special by lifting the veil. It’d be like going behind the scenes in Disney World; I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know where Mickey Mouse took his cheese break, if you feel me.
And while I don’t remember the circumstances, I eventually unboxed the spinner and unstuck myself from whatever was keeping us apart. Intermittently I’d fall into spells in which I’d churn through half a dozen batches, then return Red to her cardboard crib, and my ice cream itch would again go dormant.
Each time I returned to the practice, though, I did so with renewed vigor, glamorizing the most recent batch, even if in reality it had wound up a mass of wobbly goo or some barely edible iteration of a flat flavor.
There’s something enchanting about the challenge. There’s a romance to the reticence with which we approach this practice. And as with all great risks, the reward is that much sweeter for the string of inevitable failures.
I don’t know how many people have had the good fortune of tasting fresh ice cream out of a freezer, but there is simply nothing like it. For all of the hassle that making ice cream can be, for the headaches and the heartbreak and—if you’re like me—the tears through which we watch perfectly selected ingredients make an untimely trip down the drain, when the stars align, the result is worth every bad batch.
It’s my hope that this book has helped you to find the confidence and inspiration to create these memories for yourself and your friends and family. To make your ice cream your own and share it with the people you love. After all, it’s like serving them a tiny frozen scoop of your soul.
And despite now having owned a stable of ice cream spinners, from countertop Cadillacs to commercial-grade, 1,200-pound behemoths capable of pushing out massive quantities at pulse-racing speeds, I still have old Red. She’s been moved around a lot, but the old girl still gives me her best.
I’ve finally managed to give her a more comfortable place to stay: a cozy cabinet all her own. It’s still above the refrigerator, but these days she’s totally out of the box.
