Behind the Recipe -- Jeri Quinzio

The Sound of Ice Cream

One of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard was the jingling bells of an ice cream truck coming around the corner of my street. When I was a kid, the bells promised that something wonderful was on its way, a summer afternoon’s treat for all the good, or not-so-good, girls and boys.

The minute we heard those bells, my friends and I dropped whatever we were doing,ran to the truck, and got in line. We waited anxiously, trying to decide what we wanted before it was our turn and we had to order. 

The idea for an ice cream truck originated with Harry Burt of Youngstown, Ohio. In 1902, when most vendors sold from horse-drawn wagons, he began selling his ice cream from a motorized wagon. Later, Burt invented the Good Humor Bar, a chocolate-covered ice cream bar much like the Eskimo Pie, but with a stick in it for easier handling.

Burt painted his truck white to suggest cleanliness, outfitted it with bells from the family’s sleigh, and bought a white uniform for the driver. The Good Humor man with his pristine uniform and jingling bells set the standard for ice cream men all over the country for years. He was so popular that he even starred in some movies. There may be women behind the wheel of ice cream trucks today, but in those days it was still a man’s job. 

In my memory, the tension of the decision-making is as vivid as the taste of the ice cream. I could choose a drumstick, that chocolate-covered ice cream cone that wasn’t as good as a sundae, but came awfully close. Or maybe I’d have an icy Popsicle. But if that was my choice, which flavor should it be? What about a rich chocolaty Fudgsicle instead?  No, maybe a Push-up. Push-ups were more fun, though less flavorful. Or I could ask for a  Creamsicle, with its fruity yet creamy combination of orange and vanilla. By the time I got to the head of the line, I was hopping up and down with anticipation.

When I read, not long ago, that some communities were banning the ice cream truck’s jingling bells, I was appalled. “Too noisy,” they claimed. “Not in keeping with our neighborhood’s character,” said some. The battle was in the news. Lawyers, legislators, and courts all got involved. Some bans remain; others have been overturned. Personally, I think that this is the sort of thing that gives grownups a bad name.

Whether your neighborhood welcomes ice cream trucks or not, you can taste the flavor of a Creamsicle again. All you need is an extract called “Fiori di Sicilia” (Sicilian Flowers) and this recipe. If you can’t find the extract at a market, you can get it from the King Arthur flour website or catalog. It’s worth the effort.

The taste will take you back to Creamsicles past.

 

Creamsicle Ice Cream

3 cups of heavy cream
3/4 cups of sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons of Fiori di Sicilia extract

Pour the cream into a heavy saucepan and heat until it starts to just barely bubble around the edges. Don’t let it come to a boil. Remove from heat and stir in the sugar. Mix until the sugar is dissolved.

Let the mixture cool slightly, then stir in the extract.

Cover and refrigerate for several hours or overnight. Then churn in your ice cream machine according to manufacturer’s directions.

Makes one quart.

 

Pudding for Pudding

 

When George Bernard Shaw said England and America were “two countries divided by a common language,” he wasn’t referring to foods. But he might well have been.

Consider the potato. When the English dine on bangers and mash, they’re having what we call sausages and mashed potatoes. Our French fries are their chips. Hence, fish and chips. Bubble and squeak is not the name of an English child’s bathtub toy; it’s their dish of cabbage and potatoes.

The English say treacle. We say molasses. Our taffy is their toffee. We say eggplant; they say aubergine. Their prawns are our shrimp. Their courgette is our zucchini.

In England, an alewife is a woman who runs an alehouse or bar. In America, an alewife is a fish. 

Their pies tend to be hearty meat- or fish-filled dishes. Ours are usually sweet, fruit- filled ones. They call those tarts. As do we, when we’re speaking French.

Their biscuit is our cookie. Our biscuit is their scone. Which they pronounce to rhyme with gone not phone.

We breakfast on oatmeal. They have porridge. In England, children dunk soldiers – strips of toasted or fried bread – into their morning eggs. American children settle for toast.
Or maybe English muffins. Which, of course, are American. The English call the equivalent crumpets.

On both sides of the Atlantic, pudding may well be the creamy, sweet dessert we’re all familiar with. However, in England the word is also a synonym for dessert. So when a Brit asks, “What’s the pudding tonight?” he is not asking whether it’s chocolate or butterscotch. He’s asking, “What’s for dessert?”

Sometimes the pudding is pudding, and it’s often iced or frozen. Ice cream made with candied fruits, currants, and nuts and usually flavored with liquor, frozen puddings were extremely popular in England in the 19th century. They were thought to have been inspired by English plum pudding, which is made with raisins, not plums.

The best known frozen pudding was called “Nesselrode,” after Russian count and diplomat Karl Vasilyevitch Nesselrode. In their book All About Ices, Jellies and Creams, published at the turn of the 20th century, English authors Henry G. Harris and S.P. Borella wrote that Nesselrode pudding’s composition varied considerably with “scarcely any two confectioners agreeing thereon.” They went on to report: “Chestnuts in some form are generally insisted upon, but seldom used even by those who  insist.” It was usually served with a maraschino-flavored syrup.

Recipes for frozen pudding crossed the Atlantic quickly, and cooks made endless variations on the theme.  But on both sides of the pond they did – and do – call it frozen pudding. 

Nesselrode Pudding

Put one-half pound of shelled and skinned chestnuts in cold water and let boil until very tender. Then press through a sieve. Beat yolks of five eggs with one-half pound sugar until light, add mashed chestnuts, and stir in one pint sweet cream. Put on to boil in double boiler. Add few grains salt and stir until mixture begins to boil. Remove from fire and set aside to cool. When cool, put chestnut cream in freezer and freeze ten minutes; then add one pint stiffly whipped cream with two tablespoons powdered sugar; then add one-half pound crystallized fruit that has been previously cut into pieces. Flavor with vanilla. Freeze a little longer; pack in pudding form in ice and rock salt for two hours. – The Neighborhood Cook Book, Council of Jewish Women, Portland, Oregon, 1914.

Midwinter's Ice Dream

 

Ice cream was once a seasonal treat, reserved pretty much for summer. That was partly because the refrigeration and transportation systems that allow foods to be grown and shipped all over the world, all year long, didn’t exist. It was also because some confectioners thought it unnatural to eat ice cream in winter.

The foremost ice cream maker in 18th-century Paris, M. Emy, was one of them. He thought ice cream was strictly a summertime delight. However, he was a pragmatist. So when his boss asked for ice cream in January, Emy made wintry ice creams with chocolate, coffee, or warm spices like cinnamon and cloves. Or he served ice creams prepared with the preserves he’d made the summer before when the fruits were at their peak of perfection.

Today, most people think it’s perfectly natural to eat ice cream all winter long. Of course, I agree. But I do like following Emy’s seasonal approach. So, like him, I make wintry ice creams with spices, coffee, or jams and marmalades prepared, admittedly not by me, when the fruits are ripe and bursting with flavor. Orange marmalade works particularly well. 

I make (or buy) strawberry or peach or raspberry sorbets and ice creams in spring and summer. In autumn, I turn to pear or pumpkin-pecan ice cream.

When the wind chill is part of the weather forecast, I warm up to spicy ice creams flavored with ginger or nutmeg. I choose deep, dark chocolate in December. Caramel or burnt sugar or dulce de leche all have the bittersweetness that’s perfect for January. The combination of coffee and chocolate feels right for a frosty February night. To every thing there is a season – even to ice cream.

Coffee with chocolate-covered espresso beans

This is my idea of a midwinter’s night dream ice cream. 

2 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup finely ground espresso or dark roast coffee
5 egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
1/2  cup chocolate-covered espresso beans

Combine milk and cream in saucepan and warm over low heat. Add the ground coffee, stir and heat until it’s about to simmer. Shut off heat, cover and let the mixture steep for half an hour or so. Give it a stir from time to time.

Half fill a large bowl or saucepan with ice or ice water and set aside.

In another saucepan, whisk egg yolks and sugar until thick and pale. Strain the coffee mixture carefully to get rid of the coffee grounds, then rewarm it. Stir it very gradually
into the egg mixture. When it’s all incorporated, cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until it thickens enough to coat the spoon. Do not let it boil.

Place the pan of coffee custard in the bowl with the ice or ice water and continue to stir until it cools.

Cover with plastic wrap pressed against the surface so it doesn’t form a skin on top. Chill for at least 12 hours.

Put the coffee beans in a zip-lock bag and smack with a rolling pin or a heavy bottle until they’re chopped up. Set aside.

Churn the ice cream mixture in your machine, following manufacturer’s instructions. When it’s almost ready, mix in the chopped chocolate-covered coffee beans. Store tightly covered in freezer until ready to serve. Makes one quart. – Ice Cream: The Ultimate Cold Comfort, Jeri Quinzio, 2006