The Empress of Ice Cream

As a soi-disant essayist, I crank out my little 500-worders every week.  I don’t kid myself that any of these essayettes will someday resurface in any anthology, but I do go for diverting, sometimes humorous, occasionally enlightening pieces. Take this week’s topic: ice cream. My ambitious goal was to trace the history of the frozen treat, and end with my current obsession-- creating unusual flavors with my new ice cream maker. But as I began my research, I bumped smack into Anne Fadiman’s delightful essay collection which features—of course—a wonderful piece about ice cream’s history, and its place in her life. Oh well.

So, those wishing to debate ice cream’s country of origin (Renaissance Italy? Ancient Greece?), and learn about famous fans (is it true that Thomas Jefferson’s “Louisiana Purchase” was actually a gallon of pralines n’ cream he bought down in NOLA's French Vanilla Quarter?) must look elsewhere. I will dial back my scope, and instead share just a personal reflection.

My earliest ice creamy memories include: 

The Good Humor truck, which in fine weather took up residence on Stuyvesant Oval in my Manhattan neighborhood. I loved the classic chocolate dipped ice cream bar; Mom inexplicably went for toasted almond (YUCK!) Fast forward to childhood summers at the Jersey Shore, and my serendipitous discovery of lemon custard ice cream. I adored it at first slurp, and assumed it would always be available to me. However, I would search for decades in vain for this elusive taste sensation.

In 9^th grade I went through a long stretch of not eating much of anything—except a daily pint of Neapolitan, which I’d buy and consume on the way home from high school. Heard of “ice cream headaches?” Mine were Olympic sized; the weeks would go by with only chicken broth and the occasional hard-boiled egg joining the Breyer’s as my total diet. When I finally came to my senses, I avoided ice cream for years, because it brought back memories of a dreadful time in my life.

I’m back in the fold now, thanks to our summer fave, King’s Ice Cream Shop in Lewes, and occasional off-season forays into Ben-and-Jerryland. But I never tried making my own until very recently, and it’s been a game changer. The boys and I take turns coming up with ideas for flavors. The guys go for the classics, whereas Nana is lured by recipes for lavender-honey, orange-fig, saffron-rose and the like.

It all came full circle when Peter requested...lemon custard! Suddenly I was eight years old, loving that little cup of citrusy heaven in a Point Pleasant, NJ, ice creamery. It tasted exactly as I remembered, completely delicious.

Wallace Stevens’ poem “The Emperor of Ice Cream” describes a wake, during which ice cream is being churned for the mourners. His point is that we should treasure the fleeting pleasures which make up our reality, before it’s too late. Sweet moments? Life is full of them, friends.

And that’s the scoop.