Make More Ice Cream - A Long Commute

“Your re-board pass?” He was looking down at me with an air of composed disgust. It wasn’t a unique detestation held for me especially, rather a universal one he felt for all of us who happened to be ridding his bus that particular evening. I was midway threw Nina Simone’s live version of The Rising Sun Blues and had not heard his request. His irritation however, clearly displayed with his creased forehead and pursed eyebrows, was evident and so I removed my headphones and looked up at him with a fatigued smile waiting for him to repeat himself.
It had been an awfully full weekend; jam packed with an exhausting schedule of lactose-laced lectures, demonstrations, and networking. I hadn’t eaten solid foods in three days, only ice cream. If you have ever wonder if it were possible to survive on ice cream alone, the answer is yes, it’s possible, though I don’t advise it.
Here I am tasting samples of vanilla and chocolate that display subtle and not so subtle variation in processing, composition, and flavoring. I was beginning to exhibit some pretty severe signs of sugar withdrawal, brought on by an equally cruel ice cream hangover. Wow, I ate way too much ice cream, I thought to myself as I took in the cheerlessness of my current circumstances.

“ YOUR-RE-BOAR-DING--PASS, THE-ONE-I-GAVE-YOU-IN-HARR-IS-BURG, DO-YOU-HAVE-IT?” He repeated this in a tone and manner that seemed to imply a mental inadequacy on my part. “If you remember giving me a re-boarding pass, then why do I need to show it to you to stay on the bus?” I was asking with sincere curiosity. He didn’t care at all for my response and, flaring his nostrils just as disturbingly as he bulged his eyes, he stomped off to the front of the bus cursing as he went.

It’s probably not such a hot idea to piss of the bus driver. As he jerked the bus violently out of the Philadelphia station, I wondered if we would make it back to New York in one piece. It would be a shame if my last supper came out of a vending machine. Then again, if it were my time to go, at least I had the chance to spend the weekend immersed in the subject of ice cream and surrounded by like-minded people.

Curious what kinds of people decide to take a two-day intensive course dedicated entirely to ice cream? I certainly was. The first lecturer gave me the opportunity to find out when he asked each of us to stand up and introduce ourselves and explain why it was we were there.
“ Hi, my name is Tom. I was a school teacher for twenty five years and am looking to retire and though an ice cream store might be a fun business to get into.” “My name is David. I manage a bank, I love ice cream, and am thinking of making a carrier change and thought, why not an ice cream shop?” etc. Half of the people there were looking to ice cream for retirement or a career change. Five of them were bankers, which amused me to no end. Just think about it, the guy who talks to you about high interest saving and IRAs sitting there in his office dreaming up new and exciting ice cream flavors. I’ll never look at my banker the same way again.

Two women wanted to make ice cream from their own milk, one from her flock of Nigerian Dwarf Goats, and another from her six-legged cow, now if that isn’t a great gimmick I don’t know what is. Many of the students already owned ice cream shops, while others had no intention of going into business; they were there simply on the merits of their deep affection for ice cream.

Then, of course, there was me, “Hi, my name is Madeline. I live in New York and write a food blog that chronicles my adventures in food, and yes you guessed it, Ice Cream.” I didn’t mention that I it was my dream to open an ice cream shop because, even in this crowd of ice cream fanatics, I felt a bit foolish and unsure of myself. As the weekend drew on however, I found myself becoming more and more encouraged as I learned about the ins and outs of the ice cream business. Perhaps this foolish food adventure is not so foolish after all. Now all I have to do is get back to New York, and off this bus, in one piece.

Make More Ice Cream

I decided not to wear my snow boots and sure enough, three minutes after I left the hotel, it began to snow. It was still dark and as I turned the corner it became evident that I was the only one walking down the snow dusted street. Snowflakes clung to my hair, scarf, and sweater and I shoved my cold bitten hands into my pockets while asking myself the question, how did I get here? Of course I knew the answer, I was here (here being Penn State at College State PA) because of my one and only New Years resolution: to make more ice cream. It was an easy enough resolution, ice cream eating being one of my favorite occupations followed closely by ice cream making. When I read about Penn State's Ice cream 101 quick coarse, I knew it would be a wonderful opportunity to fulfill my resolution. I immediately signed on and three swift weeks later BAM, I was walking down Park Ave wondering what other kinds of folks fancy the idea of dedicating an entire weekend to their worship of frozen dairy products. Certainly not the type that considered it wise to walk twenty minute in the snow at 7am, I thought to myself as snow inched up between my sock and my swede shoe. I did not know it yet, but this peaceful walk was the calm before what was to be a fifteen hour whirlwind of dairy drenched lectures, demonstrations, and taste tests. All I can say is, La Vida Es Dura.

to be continued...

My One Night Stand with Elat

For some, grocery shopping is a real drag, for others it is a tolerable chore. There are those for which going to the market is a competitive sport - you know the one; that little old granny in the muumuu who wields her shopping cart like a bumper car driver on a crack induced rampage. In stark contrast, there is Francine Prose who, in her essay for Saveur Magazine entitled Religion Found, describes grocery shopping as a religious experience fully stocked with ample opportunities for spiritual enlightenment. For Francine, the grocery store is no battleground, rather the hardy soil from which the conscious may rise, and from which our humanity flowers. Of course grocery shopping is all of those wonderful things, but for me, there is only one experience to which I can compare food shopping and that’s love.

When I passed through the front door of Elat Market on Pico Blvd in Beverly Hills, I knew instantly what I was feeling was special. Somewhere between the entranceway and the hustle and bustle of the inside, a yearning gurgled up inside me. I stood back and, as with a new lover, I ran my eyes across every crevice of the produce and dry goods sections, mapping out future destinations.

It is not always love at first sight. Crowded aisle ways, disorganized produce, and lecherous staff members are all details that have cast the ugly shadow of uncertainty upon past potentials. ‘Is this really the market I see myself shopping in?’ I have ask myself with unease as I pondered how to retrieve the bottle of Sicilian olive oil from an obscenely high shelf. The freezer door that used to stick on aisle 9, yeah it was sort of cute to begin with, ‘but what about two or three years from now,’ I asked myself one morning while gazing hopelessly at the rows of neatly stacked bags of Cascadian Farms Organic Berries. When I find myself asking these types of questions, I do what my mother always advised me to do and I listen to my instincts. Usually, with time and patience I discover weather or not a store’s assets are worth overlooking its shortcomings.

My experience with Elat was something entirely different. The instant I entered the store I stumbled upon one of its gaping flaws, but instead of feeling doubtful, I felt intrigued, interested, and incredibly excited.

Grasping my oversized shopping cart, I hesitated on the perimeter of the congested produce section. The drawbacks were evident; navigation was not going to be an easy feat. Along the left side of the two aisles, shoppers had stashed their carts bumper-to-bumper like parked cars lining the sidewalk. There were no immediate spaces available so I waited, patiently. But three or four minutes later there was still no parking! ‘Should I plow right through?’ I questioned after watching an old man do just that. Just as I was about to abandon my perch and follow him down the rabbit hole, an old woman began scolding him mercilessly and she didn’t stop until he had cowered back to the other side of the invisible boundary that separated us from the Elysian Fields of fruits and vegetables. I waited two more minutes only to lose my opportunity to a tenacious old lady who pushed right passed the both of us and entered the aisle without obstruction.

Clearly there were unspoken rules in effect, and even clearer was the fact that I had no clue what those rules were. I returned my shopping cart and grabbed a basket and, in the name of love, dived courageously into the mix. I leaned right, I hopped left, and I stepped on many a foot in between. These women meant business! Wading threw the herd was at once an intricate dance, as well as a barreling game of chicken, a kind of masochistic game of hard to get if you will. The only way I was going to make it to the other end of the aisle was to fane confidence; if they sensed fear, it was all over.

There were no hellos, no excuse mes, no sorry for running over your foot with my very heavy shopping carts, and seemingly no peripheral vision. What I did find however was a momentary ebb in the surging stream of graceless bodies and like a thirty-year old finding their place in the cosmos, I took mine in this tiny but heavenly universe. With a grin on my face, I filled my basket with cabbage, mint, and strawberries. This was the honeymoon period. That point in a relationship when you have established a mutual affection and you can sail along for some time unhindered by the lurking past.

For Elat and I however, the future was looming. Once the immediate task was complete, I would move on, the flow of brawny woman would continue, and we would never see each other again. I held a bunch of lemon basil to my nose and took a whiff. It smelled like summer, and even here in California, the seasons don’t stand still.
When I was done with the produce section, I moved on to new sections, and new discoveries. They had canisters of halva, bags of dried flowers for cooking, Tamarind Paste, Saffron, Cardamom, and Rose Water Ice Cream, freshly baked challah and pita breads, they even had a music section. By the time I had made my way to the check out counter, I had learned a crucial lesson about companionship, you don’t have to overlook the flaws of your beloved grocery store in order to find love because, love means embracing those flaws, relishing them, and in my case mourning their imminent loss.

I suppose Francine’s depiction of grocery shopping as a spiritual experience, isn’t all that fare from my idea of it as love. Love has the potential to lift us up above all of the faults and defects of this life in order that we might realize the divinity housed in each and every imperfection. Simply put, love makes us better people, even when it is love of a grocery store.

I Admit...

Alright, I admit it, I have an obsessive personality and, when it comes to food, this fanatical glitch in my otherwise prudent nature can very often border on pathological. You’re all incredibly shocked, I’m sure. Those of you who have kept abreast of my coffee antics, have tagged along for my fantastical and at times quite tragic forays in cup cake making, and have witnessed my diligent journey to the finger-licking depths of chocolate noshing all understand how truly fixated I can become on a single food item.

Well I stand before you guilty once again. This time the substance of choice is, you guest it, ICE CREAM. Sure I could blame somebody else for my ‘difficulty’ with the stuff. I could easily blame David and his damn Perfect Ice Cream book but I am afraid that I am the one to blame. I have been making ice cream and consuming ice cream in sizable quantities long before The Perfect Scoop showed up on my doorstep (just wanted to take the time to thank my UPS delivery-man, Tom. Yes, we are finally on speaking terms and I'd like to keep it that way.) Blame does very little to alleviate the problem; this transgressive pattern in my eating habits is not going to change anytime soon. Who knows when I will tire of ice cream, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps never. The point is, and I promise you there is one, is that I realize that reading about coffee and coffee alone for two whole weeks only to turn around and read strictly about chocolate might become a bit boring for you readers and this is why I have devised a plan. I propose that each week I will select a subject and do my very best to blog about different aspects of that subject. When the week is up, I will move on to a new subject. I am not saying that it will be easy and I am certainly not promising that I will succeed, but for the sake of not boring you I am willing to try.

To kick things off I have decided to take things out of the kitchen and into one of NYC most beloved boroughs. My topic of the week is eating out in Brooklyn. Check back in throughout the week to find out what this peasant is eating in Brooklyn.

Pros and Cons

When comparing two items, it is important that the comparer carefully consider the pros and cons of each item. Thankfully, in my case, I am comparing ice creams, and not something unappealing like canned beets or hostess fruit pies.
Let us start with Ben and Jerry's.

Pros:

1. Its free Cone Day.
2. Its already made.
3. It's only one serving (so I won't stuff myself later.)

Cons:

1. It's only one serving (so I won't have a chance to stuff myself later.)
2. You have to choose from a set list of flavors.
3. The waiting.


And what about making a fresh batch of the ice cream from The Perfect Scoop?

Pros:

1. You can read and pronounce all the ingredients.
2. You can choose from a list of adventurous flavors.
3. You can improvise - I added ginger to the Super Lemon Ice Cream, and melon to the
Ginger Ice Cream.

Cons:

1. The effort
2. The mess
3. The waiting




As it turns out, I can't compare Ben and Jerry's and David Lebovitz' ice creams because to be honest, I didn't have the patience to wait on that long-ass line. Sure everyone looked like they were having fun, but I had been dreaming of my free scoop all day long, I hadn't eaten all day, and just around the corner was an ice cream place I have been waiting to try.





There were no long lines at Sundaes and Cones, and within moments I was sampling flavors from their selection of classic and some more unusual flavors (wasabi/poppy seed.) I ordered a cone with one scoop of Mocha Chip, and one scoop of Creamy Ginger. Sorry Ben, sorry Jerry:(







Though I did spoiled the proposed contest, I still felt the need to draw some kind of conclusion about store scooped and homemade ice creams. So when I got home I whipped up a batch of Super Lemon Ice Cream, adding a bit of ginger for good measure.
After two ice cream shops and a batch of homemade - the life of a food blogger is not easy - what does this peasant have to say about the difference between store-bought and home churned ice cream? I must say that, as you don't have to wait on an insanely long line for them, they both have their charm.

David vs. Ben and Jerry

April 17th is Free Cone Day at Ben and Jerry's. Participating ice cream shops in the NYC area include Ben and Jerry's Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, Ben and Jerry's Chelsea, and Ben and Jerry's Third Avenue. Log onto their site to find participating ice cream shops near you.

As for me and all the other Lebovitz disciples, I wonder if our ice cream endeavors will forever ruin our taste for anything other than homemade ice cream. Thankfully, I am willing to sabotage my pitiful attempt at a diet in order to find the answer to this urgent question. Check back tonight for results.

An Ice Cream Wish Fulfilled

Scrolling threw my blog entries over the last month or so, one might get the notion that I have become entirely consumed with the task of making ice cream. Do I deny it? With my culinary exploits broadcast on the web for anyone to see, how could I? Even David Lebovitz himself, the author of The Perfect Scoop and many other wonderful cookbooks, alludes to my heavenly immoderation with his link to my Gourmet Math – A losing battle post in which I attempt six of his recipes in one weekend. In accordance with 'gourmet math', and for the sake of looking sum-what presentable in my summer swimwear I was aiming at taking a break from ice cream making for a few weeks, but in light of Davids’s generous link, it seems that I must instead step it up a notch. Ah, La vida es dura – an ironic phrase that I have been uttering quite regularly as of late.

So how does an ice cream peasant step it up a notch? By making ice cream dreams come true of course! While showing my new ice cream maker to close friend and cooking companion Abraham, he opened up to me about his long and unfulfilled dream of making cilantro ice cream. “ Well do you have any plans this evening?” I asked him. He looked down at me with a tentative grin (he’s 6’4; I’m 5’4) and answered with hesitating inflection, “making cilantro ice cream…”



Unable to find a recipe for Cilantro Ice Cream, we decided on using David's recipe for Basil Ice cream as a guideline, and replaced the Basil with Cilantro.





Cilantro on its own seemed a bit boring so we decided to candy some lemon and lime zest to add a bit of kick.

With the custard churning away in the ice cream machine, and our candied lemon/lime zest cooling and crystallizing, we sat back and enjoyed some Roasted Carrot, Pear, and Beet Salad (we didn't want to eat anything too heavy with a quart of ice cream on the horizon.)



Five minutes before the ice cream was done, we tossed in the candied zest and watched as it was devoured by the rich and velvety frozen custard. "DING!!" went the timer and within moments we were crowded around the bucket and with fencing spoons tearing into the already melting concoction. It was a race against time, and we waisted none of it. " The cilantro is much more understated than I thought it would be," Abraham said before taking another bite. " But the flavor lingers," I interjected. And it did linger; Hours later I could still taste the earthy green essance of cilantro.

After our race against the melting pot, this was all that remained

So Abraham, how does it feel to have your long term ice cream wish fulfilled?









All in all the flavor came out great, though it will be subject to further experimentation and review. Perhaps we will 86 the zest and mix in a swirl of strawberry or even tomato jam instead... Any suggestions?

Gourmet Math- A Losing Battle

I jog an average of three miles, three to five times a week. I do this for cardiovascular health, and more importantly, to counteract my habitual cup cake, chocolate, and ice cream abuse. Think of it as gourmet math. I can pawn 40 minutes of jogging for eight bite-size pieces of dark chocolate - to be consumed at strategic moments throughout the day. I can also swap 40 minutes on the elliptical for a scoop or two of my favorite ice cream, a tri-berry scone from Two Little Red Hens in Brooklyn, or Salt Caramels from Lucky’s…Hell, throw in a bike ride to work and back and I can have all three. Gourmet math would be a wonderful system if it were not for it one critical flaw, my mother.

This week I visited my mother upstate and with her boyfriend Dave out of town, we were free to run wild in the kitchen, and run wild we did. Like two witches at the cauldron, we churned away at the stove making custard after custard too freeze into ice cream. The ice cream machine cranked and grunted as we watched with childish delight the creamy and swirling liquid thicken into a frosty marshmallow-like consistency. We made four flavors:
The vanilla was flawless,
the coffee aromatic,












the lemon light and puckery,












and the butterscotch almond a buttery dream.
The next morning I woke to the caramelized aroma of toasted sugar and butter and found my mother in the kitchen making ice cream cones. Later that day, with my niece, nephew, and brother, we devoured the cones and most of the ice cream. That night we returned to a nearly empty freezer; the only flavor left was a previously made container of Roasted Banana Ice Cream. We did the only thing we could do; we ate it.

For most people, this two day ice cream fest would have be enough to fulfill a month’s allocation but, for me and my mother we still had one day, three flavors, and an stack of ice cream sandwiches left to go. Why quite when you are on a roll?
After calculating the number of extra calories consumed in ice cream while at my mother’s house, Gourmet Math determined that, I would have to run three miles, at least three times a day in order to break even with this degree of calorie consumption. Who has the time for such measures? And, what is an ice cream eating peasant to do in such extreme circumstances? These question and others even mildly resembling them are clearly pushed to the back burner while visiting my mother. Lets just say, I have a lot of extra running to do in the coming weeks.

It's My Party and I'll...

eat all the Rose Water and Pistachio ice cream for breakfast if I want to.
I wish I had a better picture of this wonderful ice cream that I made, but unfortunately
I ate it all before I had a chance to snap a couple

It is fairly obvious that I have an obsessive personality, and so why should you be surprised to learn that this aspect of my personality carries over into all of my relationships, namely my relationship with ice cream. I love ice cream. I love it so much that I have a tremendously hard time not eating an entire pint in one sitting. When I am eating ice cream, it is as though I am transported to a lusciously hypnotic state of delirium. As I focus on the texture and flavor components of each bite I fall deeper and deeper into the well of this meditative state; there is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow, there is only here and now and this rapturous sensation that transforms time and space.

The problem arises after this rapturous sensation comes to an end. As soon as I have swallowed my last bite, my spiritual condition quickly disintegrates leaving me in a frenzied state of withdrawal. I may decide to stop, to put the pint down and to walk away. 'I don't have to eat the entire thing' I tell myself unconvincingly. However, somewhere, in the back of my mind I understand that the battle has already been lost. As I move on with my day, attack chores, relax, exercise or what-have-you, I am all the time aware of that half eaten pint sitting in the freezer, lonely and deserted. Before dinner I sneak a bit. Two more after dinner. 'Oh what the hell!' I exclaim, 'I can eat it now or i can eat it later, whats the difference?' I ask myself as I surrender to the "now." Sometimes, like last night with my rose flavored ice cream, I muster the strength to restrain myself, to set the pint down and to forget about it. But, the next morning, as I brew my coffee, my keenly sharpened skills of rationalization (KSSR) go to work on finding some kind of logical reason for eating it all for breakfast. Lucky for me, this morning my KSSR did have to work too hard to find a reason as I had already woken up with the perfect excuse, my thirty-first birthday. Happy Birthday to me!

Now it is off to the gym - I won't have to search too long or hard to find a rationalization for that now will I?

Stood-up

Yesterday was a day that held great promise. It was a day for enterprising research, for heartening entertainment, and creative beginnings. It would be thought provoking, invigorating, and satiating. I had been looking forward to it all week long; yesterday I was going to make ice cream.

It was my first time and the plan was to start the day off with some Internet fieldwork looking through recipes for inspiration. I had so many questions, should I start my ice cream journey with something simple like vanilla bean, or something more adventurous like spicy apple cider, or ginger melon? Once I had decided on my flavor, I would go ice-skating in Prospect Park in hopes of burning off some of the calories I was destined to consume later on that night. After some brisk and hopefully graceful laps around the rink I would next embark on one of my favorite tasks, hunting for ingredients. Sahadi’s was on the agenda for bulk, and green market next door for fresh produce. With everything accounted for, the day was going run like clock work… or so I thought.

With all my extensive planning, there was one factor I had neglected to consider: I had yet to receive delivery of my brand new Cuisinart ice-cream maker. UPS had tried to deliver the package the previous day while I was at work and had left a notice saying that it would be delivered between 10-2pm. This would not tarnish my plans however; I would conduct research until delivery and then head out to the rink at 2pm. I was determined to fulfill my day’s plans.

• By 12:30 I had completed my research and was nervously pacing in front of my window.
• By 1pm I was dressed, packed, and had checked my e-mail, myspace, and the weather four or five times.
• At 1:30pm I had decided to change my outfit and by a quarter to 2pm I had changed it once again.
• 2pm found me sitting in the windowsill and with hopeful eyes watching every car that passed.

The hours rolled by with no sign of the delivery guy. At first I was unnerved. How could the deliveryman lie so blatantly? I checked the slip one more time. It was now 3pm. My anger gave way to anxiety when I considered that possibility that there had been an accident. “ I hope he is okay,” I said to myself, feeling ashamed about my unnecessary anger. By 5:30pm my hunger inched up a notch, and my vexation soon followed. I had only planned on being in the apartment until 2pm and had no real food in the house. As my appetite grew, I was overtaken by paranoid delusions. I began imagining the deliveryman at home, happily making ice cream with my machine, ‘That bastard!’ I thought to myself as I pursed my lips and checked the UPS web site one more time.

At 6pm I scrambled some eggs with the remainder of some very old and stale up Edam cheese (the only two ingredients in my refrigerator) and as I ate I tried to let go of my ill feelings. I was upset, hurt even. What could I say? The UPS guy had stood me up. I felt betrayed and humiliated.

At 7pm, just as I was putting aside my venomous feelings the buzzer rang. I jumped to attention, my hair wildly disheveled and my eyes complete with dark circles. I ran down the stairs and swung open the front door expecting to come face to face with the villainous delivery man. Would he apologize? Would he care? I wondered. I opened the door and found nobody. I looked down the block but neither he nor his truck were anywhere to be found. On my doorstep there lay a large brown box, with CUISINART clearly printed on one side. I don’t know why the UPS guy did not stick around to deliver my package in person. Perhaps he did not have the heart to face me after his hurtful lies, or much more likely this was his last delivery of the day and he wanted the get the hell out of there. Regardless, I had my ice cream maker and although it was seven hours late and it was now evening, I was finally free to begin my day.