Reinventing The Wheel
LJ Idol, Week Sixteen
When it happened the first time, I was a kid, and didn't really understand what all the fuss was about.
"Can't we just buy it at the store?" I asked my mother.
"You'll see," she said mysteriously.
She was bustling around the kitchen just then, preparing various ingredients, and I quickly became bored.
"Can I go outside and play?" I finally asked her.
"Sure," she said, "we'll all go outside for the fun part soon, and you won't want to miss that."
I still didn't have any idea what she was talking about, but shrugged it off, and turned to go outside. I had long ago learned that the word soon, when used by adults, was a frustratingly nebulous term, sometimes encompassing just a few minutes, but at others spanning two or more hours.
It was a beautiful day, not too hot yet, perhaps eighty-five degrees or so, and very sunny. I reviewed my options, and decided that the weather was perfect to play on my swing. I would start off slow, then push, and push, and push, until I was going as high as I possibly could. Then, at the apex of my flight, I would leap from the swing with hands extended, doing my best to touch the sky.
Our house sat at the center of five acres, and naturally was the focal point for most family activities. There was a car port in back, open to the air on all but one side, and a pump house for our well behind that. There were a few trees, both in front and in back of the house, but these were isolated in ones and twos, and not grouped together in a fashion that my young mind would've found exciting, such as a true forest. The fence which ran in-between the car port and the pump house was overgrown with honeysuckle vines however, creating a cool and sheltered space in-between where I could, once my swinging adventures were complete, curl up with a book and read about places which did have forests, and lakes, and other fun places to go adventuring.
"Danny! Danny, where are you?"
It was my mother's voice, and from the sound of it, she was somewhere near the car port beside me.
"I'm back here," I answered, setting down my book, and running around to the front of the building to find her.
"Oh, there you are," she laughed. "Come on, it's time for that fun part I was talking about."
When I got to the table she and Dad had set up underneath the car port, I found a wooden bucket sitting on its top. My sister was energetically turning the crank which stuck out from one of the bucket's sides, and strange grinding noises were coming from inside.
Now very curious, I asked my dad, "What's inside the bucket?"
"Ice," he said, putting my hand on the opposite side from the crank. "Ice and salt. Feel how cold it is?"
When my sister finally gave up her turn at the crank, I was allowed to briefly examine the whole mysterious machine, and discovered that there was a metal bucket inside the wooden one. As dad had said, there was indeed lots of ice, and presumably salt, packed around the metal container in the center.
"When you turn the crank," Mom explained, "the churn inside the center bucket turns too, and the stuff inside of it gets transformed into ice cream."
Now very excited, I began turning the crank as quickly as I could.
"Don't wear yourself out too fast," Mom said, both her and Dad laughing, "we're going to have to do this for about thirty or forty minutes before the ice cream's finished."
She was right, of course, and by the time the ice cream was pronounced ready to eat, we had all had several turns at the crank.
That first taste of homemade ice cream, fresh from the machine we had all mixed it in, is one of the most magical memories from my childhood. It was my first experience creating something which could be eaten afterwards, and I was shocked to discover how much better it tasted than the ice cream you bought at the store. Researching this entry, I found out that it's still possible to buy the old style crank powered ice cream makers, as well as completely improper ones which are powered by a motor.
As soon as the weather's nice and warm--which in Texas could be as early as tomorrow--I intend to launch my master plan. First, an old style ice cream maker shall be obtained. Second, a suitable recipe or three will be decided upon with my lovely wife, Lizbeth. Third, all the ingredients will be mixed together. Fourth, the ice cream maker shall be transported out to the driveway and placed upon a sturdy table. And then, then the cranking will begin.
The only rule will be, "If you wanna eat, you have to crank!"
Dan
When it happened the first time, I was a kid, and didn't really understand what all the fuss was about.
"Can't we just buy it at the store?" I asked my mother.
"You'll see," she said mysteriously.
She was bustling around the kitchen just then, preparing various ingredients, and I quickly became bored.
"Can I go outside and play?" I finally asked her.
"Sure," she said, "we'll all go outside for the fun part soon, and you won't want to miss that."
I still didn't have any idea what she was talking about, but shrugged it off, and turned to go outside. I had long ago learned that the word soon, when used by adults, was a frustratingly nebulous term, sometimes encompassing just a few minutes, but at others spanning two or more hours.
It was a beautiful day, not too hot yet, perhaps eighty-five degrees or so, and very sunny. I reviewed my options, and decided that the weather was perfect to play on my swing. I would start off slow, then push, and push, and push, until I was going as high as I possibly could. Then, at the apex of my flight, I would leap from the swing with hands extended, doing my best to touch the sky.
Our house sat at the center of five acres, and naturally was the focal point for most family activities. There was a car port in back, open to the air on all but one side, and a pump house for our well behind that. There were a few trees, both in front and in back of the house, but these were isolated in ones and twos, and not grouped together in a fashion that my young mind would've found exciting, such as a true forest. The fence which ran in-between the car port and the pump house was overgrown with honeysuckle vines however, creating a cool and sheltered space in-between where I could, once my swinging adventures were complete, curl up with a book and read about places which did have forests, and lakes, and other fun places to go adventuring.
"Danny! Danny, where are you?"
It was my mother's voice, and from the sound of it, she was somewhere near the car port beside me.
"I'm back here," I answered, setting down my book, and running around to the front of the building to find her.
"Oh, there you are," she laughed. "Come on, it's time for that fun part I was talking about."
When I got to the table she and Dad had set up underneath the car port, I found a wooden bucket sitting on its top. My sister was energetically turning the crank which stuck out from one of the bucket's sides, and strange grinding noises were coming from inside.
Now very curious, I asked my dad, "What's inside the bucket?"
"Ice," he said, putting my hand on the opposite side from the crank. "Ice and salt. Feel how cold it is?"
When my sister finally gave up her turn at the crank, I was allowed to briefly examine the whole mysterious machine, and discovered that there was a metal bucket inside the wooden one. As dad had said, there was indeed lots of ice, and presumably salt, packed around the metal container in the center.
"When you turn the crank," Mom explained, "the churn inside the center bucket turns too, and the stuff inside of it gets transformed into ice cream."
Now very excited, I began turning the crank as quickly as I could.
"Don't wear yourself out too fast," Mom said, both her and Dad laughing, "we're going to have to do this for about thirty or forty minutes before the ice cream's finished."
She was right, of course, and by the time the ice cream was pronounced ready to eat, we had all had several turns at the crank.
That first taste of homemade ice cream, fresh from the machine we had all mixed it in, is one of the most magical memories from my childhood. It was my first experience creating something which could be eaten afterwards, and I was shocked to discover how much better it tasted than the ice cream you bought at the store. Researching this entry, I found out that it's still possible to buy the old style crank powered ice cream makers, as well as completely improper ones which are powered by a motor.
As soon as the weather's nice and warm--which in Texas could be as early as tomorrow--I intend to launch my master plan. First, an old style ice cream maker shall be obtained. Second, a suitable recipe or three will be decided upon with my lovely wife, Lizbeth. Third, all the ingredients will be mixed together. Fourth, the ice cream maker shall be transported out to the driveway and placed upon a sturdy table. And then, then the cranking will begin.
The only rule will be, "If you wanna eat, you have to crank!"
Dan