Dorothy’s Place: Homemade

By Dorothy Denne

I was hot, tired, and hungry. I had worked hard and I deserved a treat. I went to the freezer and took out the carton of ice cream.

It was frozen so hard I could hardly scoop it out. As I jabbed and dug, I longed for the smooth, creamy-rich treat I remember from my early childhood days on the farm.

Summer Sundays were when cousins would come to visit and we would have homemade ice cream. We had our own fresh cream and eggs. Usually we made vanilla and Mother would make her own chocolate syrup. If fruit was in season, we might have wild strawberry or peach or cherry.

Dad would buy ice from the icehouse. In winter they cut big chunks of ice from the river and took them to the icehouse where they were stacked and covered with sawdust and straw and kept frozen for the summer.

Mom would mix the ingredients and pour them into a metal canister. The lid had a paddle attached so that when it was in place, the paddle blades were also. The canister was then set down into the center of the wood bucket-like outer part. Dad would pack ice in the space between the canister and the wood bucket, then he would place a bar with a handle across the top. It had gears that fastened to the canister lid and it clamped onto the bucket. Then Dad added rock salt to the ice and threw a burlap sack over the top to rest one hand on while cranking with the other.

Everyone would take turns cranking, including the kids. In the beginning it was easy but as the ice cream began to “make,” it became harder and harder to turn the handle so Dad would take over again. Now we kids would take turns sitting on the freezer to keep it in place while he turned. When he said, “It’s ready!” we gathered around with our bowls for a treat that can only be experienced, not described.

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