Giggling uncontrollably at inappropriate moments. Attracting elderly male fans who regale me with gifts like expired cookies. Doggedly blocking cars that take my reserved parking spot. Writing skills aside, there are a number of things about me that my former co-workers will have a tough time forgetting. But my greatest legacy, perhaps, is Ice Cream Friday.
Ice Cream Friday was born on a hot day in the summer of 2006 when, on a whim, I ducked out to a local frozen yogurt shop for an icy, sugary afternoon pick-me-up. With a simple swirl of chocolate and vanilla for me, and a thick serving of peanut butter ice cream for my boss, the two of us powered through the paper's layout in no time. When 4pm and the start of the layout loomed the following Friday afternoon, Kevin and I had a very delicious tradition on our hands.
We played around with times - eating ice cream too early would lead to sugar rush and crash before production even began, we learned; too late and we'd be too distracted by work to focus on dessert (or vice versa) - and experimented with flavors - the unknowable, multi-colored Superman is truly disgusting, but in the end an alarm was set for 3:30 and the ice cream man knew our orders by heart.
Kevin and I always tossed around the idea of making our own ice cream. He had an ice cream maker, a Christmas gift of some year past, still in its original wrapping. Somehow, we never got around to it, but oh boy, do I wish I had that ice cream maker of his now.
Two nights ago, hungry and haunted by the idea of making my 3-day detox a little more exciting, I decided to make my own ice cream. The diet called for a half-cup of regular vanilla ice cream and a cup of melon for dessert, not together exactly, but I couldn't help but wonder, why not together? I had whole milk yogurt and sugar, close enough to plain vanilla ice cream, and the most fragrant Galia melon just begging to be ripped open and ravaged. What better way to completely ravage a fruit than by ice cream-ifying it!?
Now as I said, I do not own an ice cream maker. Being the overconfident smarty pants that I am, I found maker-free ice cream instructions courtesy of David Lebovitz, a genius of a man whose writing is evocative enough to push even the strongest dieters over the edge, inspiring them to throw caution to the wind and baby carrots to the ground. I am not the strongest dieter. And after discovering David's instructions - so simple, so straightforward - there was no way I could resist.
I prepared the custard and threw it in the freezer. I set timers and alarm clocks to make sure I stayed awake and ready to mix, mix, mix, squashing away the oh-so-evil ice chunks that would form every 30 minutes or so. Who needs an ice cream maker when she's got all this elbow grease to spare? I wondered during the first go-round. As the night progressed, the mixture got smoother, and I got sleepier. By midnight, I was ready for bed. And the ice cream, I thought, was ready for a little R&R, too. I spooned it into two plastic containers, and off to dreamland I went.
When I woke up, I had two blocks of green ice, just like this one:
Don't get me wrong - the melon ice cream looked beautiful, like sea foam preserved for eternity - and tasted amazing, with little chunks of soft melon caught floating in the sweet glacier. But the texture was ... let's be kind; it was off. Really off. So off I couldn't get a hot spoon through to scoop it up. Out it came in one big piece, that sweet, green-flecked block. I thought about licking it, or shaving it like an Italian ice. But as I contemplated just tossing the whole thing in the trash, the block began to soften, the wave of ice giving way and its summery flavor escaping in a ripe torrent.
While it wouldn't have hurt to have one on hand, I suppose that in the end, not having the ice cream maker didn't make much difference at all.
***
Melon fro-yo
Adapted from David Lebovitz: Living the Sweet Life in Paris
As much as I enjoyed my melon-ice dessert, I can't really call it ice cream or even frozen yogurt (though that's technically what it is) because, well, ahem, it wasn't creamy, at least not until after it started to melt. Leave it too long, and you get a sweet soup, like melon gazpacho. My recommendation is to use an ice cream maker if you have one - if my product was so good, the maker's must be AMAZING - or start early and stick with the bi-hourly ice beatings. Elbow grease, indeed.
Note: I used a Galia melon here, really only because it looked and smelled incredible at the store. I have since learned that Galia is the feminine form of Gal, the Israeli word for wave. Knowing that, my melon-ice block looked just perfect.
Preparing the Custard
Yields about 1 quart.
1/2 (about two cups) ripe melon
2/3 cup sugar
2 teaspoons vodka (optional)
1 cup good quality, plain, whole milk yogurt
Juice of 1 whole lemon
Remove seeds and melon rind, and cut the melon into small pieces. Toss in a bowl with the sugar (and the vodka if you're using it) until the sugar begins to dissolve. Cover with plastic wrap and let stand at room temperature for 2 hours, stirring periodically.
Transfer the fruit and the juice to a blender or food processor. Add the yogurt and fresh lemon juice. Pulse the machine until the mixture is smooth.
Chill for 1 hour, then freeze in your ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's instructions OR, if you dare, follow the directions (see below) for making the ice cream by hand.
Making Ice Cream Without a Machine
Prepare ice cream mixture (see above), then chill it in the fridge.
Pour the custard mixture into a deep baking dish or bowl (made of plastic, stainless steal or other durable material) and stash in the freezer.
After 45 minutes, open the door and check the custard. As it starts to freeze near the edges, remove it from the freezer and stir vigorously with a spatula or whisk, or use a hand-held blender. Really beat it up and break up any frozen sections. Return to freezer.
Continue to check mixture every 30 minutes, stirring vigorously as it freezes, until the ice cream is frozen. This process will likely take two to three hours. Stick with it.
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