Flipping through one of my favorite catalogs, the Vermont Country Store, I ran across some brightly colored aluminum tumblers and bowls, just like the ones that filled my grandmother’s kitchen cabinets. A wave of nostalgia hit me (as it often does), and I was transported back to the shade of a spreading pecan tree in Grandma’s backyard. The year was 1967. It was June and Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” had just hit the airwaves, the Six-Day War had ended and there was talk of a big gathering of hippies out in California. But there, under the shade of that old tree, those events might as well have happened on another planet. The biggest concern for me and my cousins was whose turn it was to man the ice cream crank.
We heard snippets of conversation floating from the back porch where the men were gathered – words like Vietnam and Johnson – but they meant nothing to the kids engrossed in making a coveted frozen treat. For us youngsters, it was a time of innocence and isolation from a troubled outside world.
In our rural community we celebrated the small, seemingly insignificant events that were part of our lives that summer. Looking back, I am filled with gratitude for our parents’ protective shield. Not that we were totally unaware – we saw things on our black and white RCAs that told us not everything was peachy – but because our parents didn’t transfer their concerns to us, we were spared from the worry. We just wanted to make ice cream.
Without the urgency now associated with ready-to-eat everything, the time involved in making homemade ice cream was viewed differently. The preparing of the base over a hot stove, the lengthy time it took to cool, the careful addition of base, milk and paddle to the metal container… it wasn’t hurried. Mama would add the ice and rock salt from a big square box, layer by layer, until just the top of the crank was visible.
Us kids would arm wrestle to see who would get the first turn at the crank – I never won. By the time I got my turn, the Piggly Wiggly paper sack we sat on to hold the freezer still was pretty much soaked and the handle much harder to move. Often, I was the “designated sitter” while the older, stronger cousins cranked, which was okay by me because it gave me plenty of time to sit on my icy throne and soak in my surroundings.
I guess that’s why I can recall days like that in such detail: a summer evening, the shadows deepening toward twilight, the frog chorus tuning up down by the creek, the soft laughter of my mom and aunts drifting through the open kitchen windows, sometimes punctuated by the slap of a knee and a roar of laughter from Dad and my uncles on the porch. I can still see those plain wooden chairs, tipped back against the white shiplap wall. From my perch on top of that wooden freezer I also watched the salty water dribble through the overflow hole down into the huge aluminum dishpan Mom used to catch it so it wouldn’t kill the grass while I listened to the good-natured sparring of my cousins.
Just as the handle became nearly impossible to turn, one of my older cousins would holler for help and the screen door would pop open. Mom came out to check our progress. I hopped down so she could remove the crank, then she would carefully wipe off the salty lid and pull the now frosty canister up and out of the ice. She’d pry off the lid to see if it was ready. We held our breath to see if she asked for the spoon, a long heavy metal beauty we still use today. When the spoon came out, the bright aluminum tumblers and bowls followed as a procession of aunties marched from the kitchen through the menfolk on the porch. That was the signal to end their conversation and join us for the “dishing” of the ice cream.
Waking from my reverie, I looked down at the catalog again and smiled. Maybe I’ll get a set, just for old-time’s sake, and make some homemade ice cream and tell the grandkids my version of the “Summer of Love.” But they probably would question why we “didn’t just buy the ice cream.” Some things you can’t explain… You just had to be there.
Aunt Gladys’s Vanilla Ice Cream
Delicious on its own, but you can add your favorite fresh fruit if you like.
1 ½ cups sugar
4 Tablespoons flour
Dash of salt
6 eggs
Milk – about 1 gallon
2 large cans evaporated milk, one for each gallon
2 teaspoons vanilla
Mix sugar, flour and salt together in saucepan, adding eggs, one at a time, beating after each addition. Add milk to this mixture until pan is about two-thirds full. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until thickened. Place in refrigerator until cool. Pour half of the base into a gallon freezer and add evaporated milk and vanilla, then fill with milk to the fill line and freeze. Makes 2 gallons ice cream.
by Tamra M. Bolton
