I Scream Ice Cream

More than escolar sushi, breaded ground lamb wrapped in corn tortillas with a squeeze of lime, cheese and olives, and chocolate, I love ice cream.

When I was little, we ate red bean popsicles and frozen colored ices in those long plastic containers. Ice cream meant tiny paper containers of vanilla Haagen-Dazs. I remember lifting up the top covering from its little tab, and eat tiny slivers of ice cream with a small wooden slab of a spoon. They were a treat, just like sodas, and I'd look forward to special days of the year to taste them.

Then US introduced me to brightly colored snow cones, creamsicles, layered push-ups, Dreyer's, pineapple sorbets, and Starbucks Mocha. I visited the Ben & Jerry's plant in Vermont during college, and vowed to eat the Vermonster one day. At ice cream parlors and carnivals I'd eat ice cream in a waffle cone and fudge sauce, and the best bite was always the last bite--when the softened ice cream seeped into the tip of the cone, and the sugared crisp and the creamy drizzle of ice cream combined into a treasured end.

So it's only natural that this birthday I asked for an ice cream maker. And since its arrival, I've made ice cream every week. The kiwi ice cream was good, and as the days went on, its flavor mellowed to wonderful. Cherry Garcia is decently good with maraschino cherries, although we'll have to wait for cherry season for a real batch. And the ice cream maker is running right now on chocolate chip cookie dough.

The Rules according to Ben and Jerry in their book:
Rule #1. You don't have to be a pro to make incredibly delicious ice cream.
Rule #2. There's no such thing as an unredeemingly bad batch of homemade ice cream.