Yesterday, after a dismal failure on July 15 (aka National Ice Cream Day), I got another couple of bags of ice, remembered to take the crucial step of soaking the bucket in water first, and made a final attempt at spinning up some delicious homemade chocolate ice cream. Whaddya know–it worked! So now not only do we have a hefty amount of leftover store-bought Dreyer’s from the other day’s Great Last-Minute Ice Cream Rescue, we also have the better part of a stainless-steel canister full of homemade frosty deliciousness (well, ok, so it’s slightly grainy homemade frosty deliciousness, but I know how to remedy that next time). It appears National Ice Cream Day has morphed into National Ice Cream Month.
My taste buds love this idea, but my waistline doth protest. I can already feel my rear end jogging along behind me and EJ in the mornings, and it doesn’t need any more help developing its own presence. Last night Brad and I sat in front of the TV with one spoon, eating straight out of the canister. I admit I had a little bit of the homemade with my breakfast this morning. This is why I only make the stuff once or twice a year, and why we generally don’t keep ice cream in the house.
But y’know what? When you go to the trouble of mixing up the recipe, gathering ice and salt and soaking the bucket and then hovering over it as it spins away, and then what comes out actually is the creamy, dreamy treat you were hoping for, the sense of accomplishment is almost as delicious as the ice cream itself. Almost. And so is the sense of entitlement that lets you convince yourself you deserve to have a few dips out of the container whenever you pass through the kitchen.