Vanilla Has-Beans

Campers, I had no idea my Psalm to the Spot would cause such ructions in the blogosphere! Reactions have ranged from nostalgia and wistfulness through to worry and right out the other side with mild outrage and vague warnings that my status as a serious foodie (such as it is) has been devastatingly undermined by my confession that I do, indeed, enjoy the occasional vanilla soft-serve.

I feel it necessary to address these issues in turn.

Nostalgia. Yes, indeed - this is the primary motivation behind my inexplicable love of The Spot. That and its certain indefinable American-ness: foreign visitors have been known to sing the institution's praises ... and loudly, too, when banana splits are involved. I always feel a little like I'm in a Norman Rockwell picture whenever I go there.

Worry. One concerned individual pointed out that it is quite dangerous to eat frozen treats at such carefree places because the gluten-filled cones are inevitably stacked adjacent to the soft-serve machines. And what about cross contamination with cereal-filled fixins such as malt, chocolate graham-crackers, and cookie bits? Well, I can't say that had previously crossed my mind. While I thank the reader in question for her obvious good intentions, I have decided not to worry about it. Life is short and I try not to take my condition too seriously, since unladylike whining and petulance often follow.

Outrage. This is by far the most troubling response. Of course I understand that a chemical-filled styrofoam cup does not a three-star Michelin dining experience make. The Spot probably wouldn't even merit one star unless the inspector was in a particularly jovial (or possibly inebriated) condition on the day he made his rounds. But a sundae there is fun, social, and happy - it's pleasant to watch the lightning bugs and rabbits doing their thing nearby and, against a fence on the property line, neighbors grow nine-foot sunflowers upon which I like to keep a watchful eye as the summer advances. I unashamedly stand by my devotion.

But the desire to mitigate damage to my foodie-rep got me pondering.

About home-made ice cream.

Although I normally reject an over-abundance of gadgets in the kitchen, I had for some time been thinking about acquiring an ice cream maker. My yearning reached fever pitch in December when Richard Blais made mustard-scented gelato on Top Chef and I realized that unless I produced some at home, I would probably never myself experience the tastebud-titillation of such wit-in-a-bowl. But other domestic duties such as jamming and cheese-making intervened, with the result that I forgot all about it.

Plus the expense. For some reason, I thought that frozen-dessert machines cost hundreds upon hundreds of dollars.

A strange confluence of events on Saturday, viz a sale at Williams and Sonoma (who kindly alerted me via e-mail about their latest promotional boondoggle); a need for some new gluten-free desserts for upcoming gala dinners; and a preoccupation with bolstering my jeopardized standing as a suburban homesteader nonpareil, resulted in my presenting myself at Bed, Bath and Beyond and taking away with me a bargain-priced ice cream bowl and cunning paddle-attachment for my tried and trusty standmixer.

A quick trip to the supermarket for replenishment of my cream and egg supply, and I was ready to go. Such excitement! Such anticipation! A whole new line of gluten-free (if not lactose-free) enquiry was presenting itself to me - if not on a plate, then definitely in a cut-glass Depression-ware parfait flute.

I decided to start with vanilla, because simplicity is often best and I wanted to see how it stacked up to The Spot's admirable soft serve. Yes, yes, I know - that's like comparing orange sherbet at Dairy Queen to San Crispino's apple-scented gelato crema di mele. Both desserts are admirable, of course - but they are very, very different. What can I say? My pride was on the line.

I popped the bowl in the freezer for the required twenty-four hours and made my custard. For two quarts (my mixer's maximum capacity) of finished silken splendor I made a custard with eight egg yolks; two and one-half cups of heavy cream; two and one-half cups of half-and-half; one cup of sugar and a pinch of salt. Although normally I would have used my priceless organic vanilla beans for flavoring, they had previously given their all in preserving pursuits and were submerged, like shrivelled black garden slugs, in the sugar canister. This causes much hilarity - on my part, at least - when guests help themselves to a spoonful of sugar for their afternoon tea. So I added to my mixture four teaspoons of good vanilla extract, decided it was insufficient, and dumped in a couple more. I benumbed the custard in the fridge for six hours before assembling my chilling-and-beating apparatus.

This took some doing (I found the destructions quite incomprehensible and had to summon assistance for diagram-parsing), but when all was said and done and the machine began to whir nicely, I poured in my very cold custard.

In no time at all, it looked exactly like The Spot's soft-serve!

About ten minutes later, the ice cream was thick and dreamy and had quintupled in volume. I hastily decanted it into two one-quart containers and secreted them in the back of the freezer for four hours, by which time the family, unable to resist temptation any longer, demanded their due.

We ate bowls of vanilla goodness with the finale of Lost, sniffling a bit with the emotion brought on by our heroes' fates and the previously-unexperienced joy of home-made ice cream. It was thick, and unctuous, and soft, and delicious at the cost of only three million calories and two hard-earned dollars per blissful spoonful. Gluten-free, to be sure - and probably not a huge amount of lactose, either, given the shocking milk-fat content.

But no matter what, I will not forsake the The Spot.

Coming soon: Pistachio and cardamom ice cream with home-made marshmallow sauce. Just to show 'em.