Some Things Never Get Old
I remember the way the tiny wooden spatula fit perfectly into the lid of the just-for-me container. The half-moon-shaped tab that bent upward allowed the paper lid to be pulled off ever so satisfyingly and to reveal the untouched icy landscape below. We would scrape the spatula carefully across the flat surface as if we were taking samples from a Petri dish. It was always a little too hard, but that was okay—we loved it. Other times, my sisters and I piled into my dad’s car, pyjama-clad, in what was surely some kind of elaborate bribery scheme to elicit good behaviour. Our destination: the ice cream shop. I think there were only three flavours—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry—but it was our version of heaven. No other earthly desires existed.
Some holidays, we were treated to the formality and grandeur of ice cream in a restaurant: tiny, delightful scoops of lemon, chocolate, and vanilla served in a metal dish with an equally tiny and delightful square spoon. How terribly grown up and fancy we thought we were.
We lived in Yellowknife. There was no such thing as an ice cream truck. So when we visited our grandparents in England, we were thrilled to hear the music that passed by their house each evening. Lightning-like negotiations with parents and grandparents ensued, fuelled heavily by the fear of being left behind and somehow missing the magical delivery man. Funds were procured, and we carried coins—so much bigger than the ones we were used to—to the truck at the end of the drive. Although a lot was on offer, we ordered only one thing: a 99, a swirly peak of soft ice cream with a silky flake of chocolate driven into its summit in the ceremonious manner of a mountaineer planting a flag on Everest. Contests followed between sisters and cousins as to who could make theirs last the longest. Some ate the flake right away, some left it until the end. Some pounded it to smithereens and sprinkled the powdery dust on top. Some sucked the ice cream from the bottom of the cone. Heaven. Tears, when someone’s cone hit the ground. Hell. Hugs followed, along with reassurance that it would be all right: “Here, have some of mine.” We were learning to negotiate, make decisions, experiment, empathize—all skills that would serve us later on.
I don’t think I can remember the first time I had ice cream but I can remember so many instances of having ice cream. All distinct, all wonderful.
With equal delight, more recently I watched as my five-year-old nephew “bought” gelato for his mum and me at Granville Island, with money given to him by his grandad for that specific purpose. Whereas at his age we had clutched coins, he clutched a crisp twenty, thrusting it at the lady just a little too early, still learning the subtleties of the transaction. Cones in hand, we sat together on a sunny bench and watched the seagulls and boats, and for a moment we were all children.
Something about ice cream slows time. If ever there was a time for being in the moment, it’s when you’re handed a beautiful cone piled high with your favourite flavour. It’s not a time for talking. It’s a time for thinking, but not too much. Sitting in an ice cream parlour is fine, but to my mind it’s nicer to stroll along the beach. Inevitably you will meet new friends who see your cone and ask where you got it, because when it comes to ice cream, the power of suggestion is mighty.
Back in the day, at a family friend’s barbecue, we made ice cream. It was one of those old-fashioned ice cream makers that looked like a wooden barrel, the outer compartment filled with ice and salt. It had a metal cylinder inside with an elaborate paddle system. I remember the noise the crank made and how the kids were recruited in order of age and strength to turn the handle as it got more difficult, until finally one of the dads would have to do the last few cranks. The salty ice mixture outside was the polar opposite to the deliciousness inside, and if you were curious enough to dip your finger into the icy water to taste it, your lips would pucker in distaste. As the lid was lifted off the interior cylinder, we stood amazed. What had gone in as a liquid now lay before us, utterly transformed into a solid, icy mass.
Today that transformation still amazes me, and I now own a small hand-crank ice cream maker that qualifies as one of the best birthday presents I have ever received. It uses a refrigerant sealed in a metal cylinder, and assuming I have remembered to place the cylinder in the freezer the night before, I can make ice cream in about 20 minutes. It feels like a meditation. Sit under the shade of a tree in your garden, sip a cocktail, and turn the crank every so often, until the paddle strains against the mixture’s thick viscosity with satisfying resistance. And there it is. All that delicious loveliness. The first time I used the maker, I made vanilla—a flavour I would rarely choose in an ice cream parlour but that seemed a good benchmark. It was subtle and beautifully textured.
I’m fascinated by the complex chemistry of it all. Eggs, sugar, milk, cream, and vanilla—seems simple, but not enough sugar and the ice cream becomes too hard. Add some liquor to impart flavour, but add too much and your ice cream won’t freeze.
I was never much of a flavour adventurer when it came to ice cream. I was a creature of habit living firmly in the chocolate camp. It’s pretty much perfect in my estimation.
Today however, I’m prepared to navigate beyond the familiar seas of chocolate. The ice cream journey continues, with new learning and new tastes and inevitably a few dropped cones along the way. Having an ice cream maker has given me licence to experiment and try new flavours—not classics, but interesting ones like rosewater and cardamom, or lemon and elderflower. Strawberry ice cream doesn’t appeal to me but basil ice cream is sublime, especially when served with fresh strawberries.
I want to make an ice cream with blueberries and balsamic vinegar or one based on a favourite cake with almond and the zest of orange and lemon. Could I make a spicy ice cream? Sadly, the ice cream will never last long enough so I guess we just have to do what we can to keep the memories from melting.
