I Know Ice Cream

I know ice cream.  I know ice cream the way a lover knows (the body of) the beloved.  I know its texture -- how it will feel on my tongue as the first spoon approaches my mouth.  I know its tastes, its flavors, even the sound of its making -- ice moving round and round in rhythm to the grunts of the turner.

It is a summer-time Sunday at Grandma's house.  The cousins and I clamor for ice cream.  The grown-ups pretend reluctance, but eventually everybody moves -- each to their part.

The taller ones get the ice from Grandma's deep freeze.  Dad gets the ice cream freezer and metal tub from the outside pantry.  I go with him and bring the salt.  Dad throws the ice bag on the ground and then takes the side of the hammer to it until all the chunks are mashed.  The violence of it is somehow satisfying.

Then Dad pours the ice around the metal canister - a little at a time, followed by a scoop of dirty rock salt - my job.  Not so much.  Make it even, my Dad's usually harsh correctives tempered by the joy of our enterprise.

Ice and salt, ice and salt -- father and daughter bent over the mechanical wonder.

Then, about half way up, Get me a cup of water.  I run to the kitchen for the water and watch Grandma stirring the junket into the boiling milk, until my Dad's voice, Elizabeth Ann! jerks me back, water in hand.

He pours and adjusts and starts to crank, just to the get the old freezer in the mood, then more ice, more salt, more water.  The back and forth of it fills me with importance -- I am a girl on a mission.

Finally it's ready - cold enough to receive the hot mixture.  Somewhere in the process, we kids have decided what flavor it'll be -- peanut butter?  No -- pineapple.  Or just plain vanilla (never our vote).

Mom, it's ready, my Dad calls out.  Grandma brings the boiling stew out and pours it into the canister with the care of a scientist with his newest lab experiment, as we kids crowd around in wonder -- every time amazed that this soup will actually become ice cream.  The other men have since gathered too -- each of us will have our turn at the crank, each sure we can go the distance, until we each fall away, and it is only my Dad turning and turning and turning -- beads of sweat pop out on his brow.  She's turnin' hard today, Sonny, someone will offer up, my Dad's only response an upward glance, a half smile and an agreeing heh.

And every now and then, giving in to my constant begging for another turn, my Dad would move his feet back to make room for me underneath him as he held the machine in place, another chance to take the handle and try to turn it, and at my defeat, with an unusually tender voice, he would remind me that he had told me it was too stiff for me to turn.

All those summer Sundays meld into one -- my Dad's hair goes from brown to grey and Grandma goes from fat to thin as I go from 5 to 12 to college and proudly present my Dad with an electric freezer, No more cranking, Dad!  

What was I thinking?