Everything But The……
When I was a little girl, we made homemade ice cream more often than we bought it. We had one of those antique oak models with a hand crank that turned a tub full of joy submerged in salty ice.
I was weird, because I liked to scoop out the ice cubes and let their briny goodness melt in my mouth. It somehow made the task of turning the crank bearable. That heart-stopping infusion of salt was the reason I liked making ice cream in the rickety churn.
Our droning, electrified model just isn’t the same. Don’t get me wrong; it makes decent ice cream. The only real disaster was cucumber flavored with Hendricks, a product that won’t freeze, even if left in Arctic until doomsday.
I guess I miss the anticipation that built from turning the crank, and the communion with the sweaty wooden device as it labored to freeze something tasty for me. My part in that process made the end product rounded and rich. I couldn’t see into the bowl the way I can with our current contraption, yielding a surprise every time I slid off the white plastic top of the tub. I knew what was going to be there, but seeing the marked change was better than peering down through the churning plastic shield we have today.
Sometimes, it’s the working for something that gives a sweet finish. Staring down the barrel of the coming weeks, that’s a truth I need to keep close to my heart.
Too Much is Just Enough: Working for Something Sweet
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