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| Vera Johnson in her dining room in Wichita, Kansas. |
A Fourth of July memory that stands out from my 1960's childhood was of my mom’s noisy kitchen every Independence Day.
Whether we were having company at our house or traveling to visit family and friends, homemade ice cream was likely going to be a treat. When I was very young, this wasn’t a noisy procedure and, because I was little, I didn’t have to sit and turn the hand crank, which would have made me appreciate the noisy machine. I was allowed to try the hand crank a time or two but if we were to have ice cream, we needed someone with muscles to make it happen. By the time I was in Junior High, Mom had a loud electric ice cream maker running by the kitchen sink before every summer get together.
Mom's recipe changed from time to time, and she experimented with flavors, by adding fresh peaches, or strawberries, or using eggs or no eggs. If she was making a flavored ice cream, it warranted a second batch of vanilla, always my favorite. I could hear the machine running from anywhere inside the house. I’d walk into the kitchen to it loudly rotating its paddles inside the canister. Why was it so loud? It seems all kitchen machines were noisy back then.
Mom would stand in front of the redwood barrel on the counter with arctic ice water dripping into the sink from a hole on its side. She added crushed ice and rock salt in between the wooden sides and the canister to keep the freezing process moving along. Just like every procedure in her kitchen, she had it down to a science! My sisters and I all knew exactly how high to keep the ice in the barrel, just in case we needed to take over while she performed the multitude of tasks to have everything ready on time. She was great at kitchen timing.
Making ice cream was even noisier with the constant yelling over the din. Not angry yelling mind you, but necessary planning yelling.
“We need to leave here by 11:00.” Dad might yell.
“I’ll be ready.” Mom would answer. She was always right.
“Girls, why don’t you get the chairs put around the table?” or
“Can you look in the second drawer of the hutch for the napkins I bought for today?”
“I think I’ll bring some tomatoes/ cucumbers/ radishes to give away.” Dad would yell above the commotion.
It was the only time I heard Dad yell.
Suddenly the machine would stop, although the ringing in my ears took a few more moments to find silence. Then the motor would be set aside and carefully, Mom would lift the lid off the canister. She usually had a spoon and plastic bowl ready. A small portion was put into the bowl and if we were lucky, we got to participate in the taste test. One tiny spoonful and she knew if it was done.
Satisfied, she’d slowly pull the paddles out of the ice cream before she replaced the lid, expertly sealing it with a folded piece of waxed paper. My sisters and I gathered around the bowl and paddles to eat the quickly melting leftovers. Mom tipped the barrel to empty any extra liquid, plugged the hole, and added more ice around the top. She covered the whole thing with old dishtowels or blankets, the insulation needed to get the sweet goodness to a party.
Dad took over from there, if they would be transporting somewhere else.
When it was finally time to serve, Mom was there, with a big flat serving spoon, to distribute the milky mixture into bowls. I'd sample the other flavors and though delicious, I usually chose vanilla. It was always as good as I expected. My first bite, creamy and icy at the same time, had a rich vanilla flavor. Although Mom usually provided strawberries, blackberries, or blueberries as garnish, I either ate it plain, or topped mine with rivulets of chocolate syrup. I ate without stirring. Unlike some who mixed until theirs was a soupy light brown, I was looking for two distinct flavors in my bowl.
Homemade ice cream has become a rarity. It seldom appears on a summer holiday menu, and it’s been many years since I’ve had an ice cream maker of my own. I'm sure they're quieter now, but I’ll always remember the flavor that was worth the noise.
