Homemade Ice Cream

A nightly ritual of eating ice cream is something that I need to stop. Doing so doesn’t help in the battle to lose weight in which I only half-heartedly engage. Giving up a cup of Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream is hard, especially when the stuff tastes as close to homemade ice cream as any on the market. Besides, I’ve always had a weakness for freezer ice cream.

Years ago, many of my relatives had birthdays that fell during the month of June. For that reason, Mother used to have a get together at our house each year. On a determined date, she would invite the Rector and Balch clans to the house. Back then, three of the four grandparents were alive, as well as uncles and aunts, and we gathered for plenty of home cooked side dishes and some kind of meat. It was all washed down with a large class of sweet tea or milk.

Adults chased the shade with Adirondack chairs in tow while we kids played softball games, tag, or hide-and-seek. Mother would yell Dinner, and the crowd would circle around the table to load plates and then return outdoors to eat. For the next twenty minutes silence reigned as we stuffed green beans, new potatoes, and corn on the cob in our mouths.

Afterward, adults settled and previous chattering gave way to more subdued conversation. No doubt, several adults with filled stomachs longed for naps. We kids, gobbled the food on our plates and hurried back to interrupted games or turns riding bikes in the yard.

Before long, Daddy brought out a green wooden bucket with a crank on the top. Mother came from the kitchen with a cylindrical silver container that she placed in the middle of the bucket. Daddy, attached the crank, poured in ice and rock salt, and began turning the handle that moved freely and easy. Adults took turns cranking the handle, and the longer they did, the more difficult making a revolution became. More ice and salt were poured in the bucket. At some point, weight was applied to the top of the bucket to stop its movement. That meant one of us kids had to sit on it, and even though a towel was placed on the top, our bottoms still numbed from the cold.

Mother would pronounce the concoction ready, and when the lid was removed, we peered at a container filled with dessert. Everyone received a dish of the stuff, and with a little luck, seconds were available. Ooh’s and aah’s greeted every bite of the stuff. The end of a perfect day was punctuated with home-made ice cream.

I didn’t have much of that ice cream for several years, but then Amy and I fell in love and got married. Summer trips to Cookeville to visit her Mother and Poppa were fun. He enjoyed cooking hamburgers on the grill, and we’d eat meals outside on the covered patio. Sometimes Amy’s Uncle Walter and Aunt Mildred would join us. The women prepared the rest of the food in the kitchen as one male manned the grill the other two kept him company.

With meals finished, Poppa and I smoked cigarettes to cap off our food. When he’d waited as long as possible, Ike would go inside and bring out a white bucket with an attached electrical cord. He’d plug it up and place it in a wash tub; for the next half hour we listened to the motor whine louder as the mixture thickened. The best part was when things stopped.

Poppa would unplug the machine and remove the container of ice cream. My love for home-made vanilla ice cream was matched by his. We’d fill our bowls to the top and spoon it in our mouths so fast that our hands could barely be seen. Suddenly, Ike would set his bowl down on the ground, bend at the waist, and grab his head. Brain freeze! For the next couple of minutes, he’d sat incapacitated. Then he’d shake his head, look up with a sheepish grin, and begin spooning the ice cream in again.

I never eat Blue Bell ice cream that I don’t recall those good times with loved ones who have been gone too long. My son Dallas is addicted to home-made ice cream as well, so maybe soon we can enjoy a bowl together and hope to avoid that freezing pain that shoots through our heads when we eat it too fast.