Ice Cream Wars

Before I begin, let’s get this out of the way:

I’m no whiz in the kitchen.

I’m a repeat offender in the oven fire category. I haven’t the foggiest idea what the difference is between bake and broil. (Not that it matters when our oven knobs are worn away.)

But I’m not completely inept. I can make lasagna, pan fry vegetables. I can grill…things. And with a packet of soup and olive oil, I bake (or broil) a mean chicken breast.

This year, however, I’ve been heart-set on whipping up ice cream. From scratch.

“I need an ice cream maker,” I announced, trolling the internet. “I want to make homemade ice cream.”

“Ok,” Martin said, commandeering my laptop. “How about this one?” He flashed onto Amazon’s appliance page and clicked on a link.

“No, not that kind,” I said with disdain. “That’s one you plug in. I want a real ice cream maker. One you have to hand crank.”

“Why can’t it be electric?”

“Because that’s cheating.”

“Why is it cheating?”

“It just is. You gotta sweat for your ice cream. It tastes better when you feel the burn!”

Martin glanced around. “Like we need another project around here. You’re writing to-do lists on scraps of paper and telling me that you’re overwhelmed. Now you want to hand crank ice cream?”

“I know what you’re doing,” I interrupted. “You’re lobbying for another gadget. Another victim for the appliance graveyard. We’ll put it downstairs with the bread maker, that cuisinart thing, the crock pot, the George Foreman grill–“

“I never bought a George Foreman grill…”

“But you wanted to.”

“I know,” Martin said, gazing off with a dreamy expression.

Ultimately, we reached a compromise. I ordered a $30 electric ice cream maker from Amazon and, after lurking on ebay for a few days (Wow, I see the addiction to ebay…), I landed a crank-it-yourself ice cream maker. I think it’s a late ’50s or early ’60s model, with minimal rust and a new paddle (Note: I reserve the right to withhold the amount of my final bid on the grounds that my husband might read this.)

“We’re having an ice cream making contest,” I announced. “And you kids are going to be the judges.”

“I vote for you, Mom!” Cayden announced. “You win.”

“Nice,” Martin said. “Your henchman’s in your corner.”

“Nope,” I told the Kid. “It’s going to be based on a blind taste test. To see which ice cream is the best.”

I was ready for war. Let the games begin!

But first, some hurtles. I’d be hunting down elusive essentials such as rock salt, and following a recipe in a manner that sounded suspiciously like cooking….

To be continued…

Update: Results posted next week when I’m back from a biz trip.

Martin, have fun with the kids. See To-Do list on kitchen table.

Just kidding.

Well, not really. 

Check table.