Crack Cream

In my post last week, I suggested that I’d soon be churning homemade ice cream.

I didn’t mean it.

It just sounded nice at the end of that blog post.

But over the weekend I got inspired.

Last year I bought an old hand-crank ice cream tub, spurred by a romanticized notion of making dessert the old fashioned way.

But electric ice cream makers were invented for a reason. Old fashioned is a pain in the butt.

First there’s the ingredient prep (I use the “custard based” recipe. Translation: eggs included.)  After cooking the mixture, it’s got to chill overnight.

Then there’s the rock salt acquisition. In search of salt, Martin visited a couple of hardware stores this weekend. At each one he was told, “We don’t carry rock salt for ice cream, just water softening salt.”

One guy directed me to a grocery store; I phoned three places. No luck. The last store told me to try WalMart.

Finally I realized that these people thought the salt was going in the ice cream.

Stupid people.

Even stoopider me — I kept hunting for mythical ice cream salt.

Just get me the water softening salt, I asked Martin. (It looks like the same stuff we used last year.)

So Sunday night we had the mix prepped, the rock salt readied, the berries picked and a few bags of ice on hand.

That was the easy part. We still had to churn it.

Martin offered to help but I hovered over him barking advice. “Turn it faster! Add more salt! More ice! Don’t be so rough, that ice cream maker’s an antique!” He walked off the job. I knelt down and got cranking. 


And maybe it was the water softening salt, or all the trips to the gym. Churning was a breeze.

I whipped up a batch of strawberry ice cream, followed by a second batch of raspberry/black raspberry ice cream. I packed samples in tupperware and doled them out to friends.

“Your ice cream’s got me hooked like crack…I need more!” one friend proclaimed in a text message.

It is seriously good.


If my freelance writing career every belly-flops, maybe I’ll peddle crack cream.