For several weeks now, I’ve been obsessing about strawberry ice cream.
I’ve never been one to choose strawberry when perusing the thirty-two-or-however-many flavours. I tend to go for something nutty or chocolaty (or preferably both). Besides that, I’m not even a huge consumer of ice cream. I rarely buy it. It was just one of those unexplained cravings, I suppose.
About a month ago, I was gearing up to run a race I’d been training for and decided it was the optimal time to indulge in something horrifically caloric. So I pleaded my case to my husband, and out we went for huge ice cream cones.
Indeed, I picked strawberry. It was nice, but it didn’t really do it for me. The craving remained unsatisfied. So when I was out at the farmer’s market last Saturday morning and saw the first of the Ontario berries, I hatched a spontaneous plan to make my own. We were headed to friends’ for a barbecue by the pool that night and that was all the excuse I needed.
Not having an ice cream maker was not about to get in my way. I’d just pick one up. So I scoured the net for the perfect recipe (settling on one from a 1983 issue of Gourmet), scared up the rest of my ingredients, and set about making the custard (half-and-half, whipping cream, sugar, and many egg yolks – egad!) and the strawberry puree (those gorgeous homegrown berries and a good scoop of sugar), which then get combined and, eventually, frozen. I saved some chopped berries to add in at the last minute – chunks are essential.
In a mad rush (because I still had to make the salad I originally said I’d bring), I decided we’d simply leave for our friends’ place (in Toronto) a few minutes early and swing by a store up the road to grab an ice cream maker en route. Simple. Perfect.
Until I got to the store (already running an hour late) and they didn’t have one. And then went to another store that had every other small appliance imaginable, but no ice cream maker. And I had seven litres of custard to make strawberry ice cream sitting in a hot car. And we needed to stop for gas yet. And go to the liquor store. And my husband was losing patience, but silently so (which is almost worse).
One last stop at one last store and I had my ice cream maker. I had to buy the floor model and the thing cost me about double what I’d anticipated. But my plan was coming to fruition. Then I leafed through the instructional manual at a stoplight and discovered that the bowl insert in the machine needs to be frozen for six to twenty-two hours before it can be used. Oops.
So my machine remained in the car, and my ice cream mixture went into my girlfriend’s fridge, and then accompanied me home again that night. As I put the machine insert into my freezer, I wondered what the heck I was going to do with seven litres of strawberry ice cream and reminded myself of the dangers of spontaneity.
But, feeling less cranky the next morning, I realized I had the perfect Father’s Day treat to take both my dad and father-in-law. So I flipped on my little dream machine, poured in the creamy, strawberry goodness and went about my business for half an hour.
And when I came back, there it was. My perfect strawberry ice cream. Like silk. All the superlatives apply. Heavenly. Craving fulfilled (and still some left).
My new mission (aside from making margaritas in my new ice cream machine) is to continue to gorge on strawberries. Most of the region’s berry farms open this weekend (see Foodlink.ca for a list of local u-pick farms) and I can’t wait to get out in the field and start picking.
I’ve never been one to choose strawberry when perusing the thirty-two-or-however-many flavours. I tend to go for something nutty or chocolaty (or preferably both). Besides that, I’m not even a huge consumer of ice cream. I rarely buy it. It was just one of those unexplained cravings, I suppose.
About a month ago, I was gearing up to run a race I’d been training for and decided it was the optimal time to indulge in something horrifically caloric. So I pleaded my case to my husband, and out we went for huge ice cream cones.
Indeed, I picked strawberry. It was nice, but it didn’t really do it for me. The craving remained unsatisfied. So when I was out at the farmer’s market last Saturday morning and saw the first of the Ontario berries, I hatched a spontaneous plan to make my own. We were headed to friends’ for a barbecue by the pool that night and that was all the excuse I needed.
Not having an ice cream maker was not about to get in my way. I’d just pick one up. So I scoured the net for the perfect recipe (settling on one from a 1983 issue of Gourmet), scared up the rest of my ingredients, and set about making the custard (half-and-half, whipping cream, sugar, and many egg yolks – egad!) and the strawberry puree (those gorgeous homegrown berries and a good scoop of sugar), which then get combined and, eventually, frozen. I saved some chopped berries to add in at the last minute – chunks are essential.
In a mad rush (because I still had to make the salad I originally said I’d bring), I decided we’d simply leave for our friends’ place (in Toronto) a few minutes early and swing by a store up the road to grab an ice cream maker en route. Simple. Perfect.
Until I got to the store (already running an hour late) and they didn’t have one. And then went to another store that had every other small appliance imaginable, but no ice cream maker. And I had seven litres of custard to make strawberry ice cream sitting in a hot car. And we needed to stop for gas yet. And go to the liquor store. And my husband was losing patience, but silently so (which is almost worse).
One last stop at one last store and I had my ice cream maker. I had to buy the floor model and the thing cost me about double what I’d anticipated. But my plan was coming to fruition. Then I leafed through the instructional manual at a stoplight and discovered that the bowl insert in the machine needs to be frozen for six to twenty-two hours before it can be used. Oops.
So my machine remained in the car, and my ice cream mixture went into my girlfriend’s fridge, and then accompanied me home again that night. As I put the machine insert into my freezer, I wondered what the heck I was going to do with seven litres of strawberry ice cream and reminded myself of the dangers of spontaneity.
But, feeling less cranky the next morning, I realized I had the perfect Father’s Day treat to take both my dad and father-in-law. So I flipped on my little dream machine, poured in the creamy, strawberry goodness and went about my business for half an hour.
And when I came back, there it was. My perfect strawberry ice cream. Like silk. All the superlatives apply. Heavenly. Craving fulfilled (and still some left).
My new mission (aside from making margaritas in my new ice cream machine) is to continue to gorge on strawberries. Most of the region’s berry farms open this weekend (see Foodlink.ca for a list of local u-pick farms) and I can’t wait to get out in the field and start picking.
Strawberry Ice Cream
Adapted from Gourmet (May 1983)
1 pound (about 1 1/4 pints) strawberries, hulled and sliced
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 1/2 cups whipping cream
1 1/2 cups half-and-half
4 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon vanilla, or to taste
In a food processor fitted with the steel blade or in a blender in batches, puree the strawberries and transfer the puree to a bowl. Stir in 1/2 cup of the sugar and the lemon juice and chill the mixture, covered for two hours.
In a heavy saucepan combine the cream, the milk, and the remaining 1 cup sugar and scald the mixture over moderate heat, stirring. In a bowl beat the egg yolks until they are light and thick and pour the milk mixture through a fine sieve in a stream, stirring. Transfer the custard to the pan and cook it over moderately low heat, stirring, until it coats the spoon. Transfer the custard to a metal bowl set in a bowl of cracked ice, stir in the vanilla, and let the custard cool, covered with a buttered round of wax paper. Chill the custard for 2 hours, stir in the strawberry mixture, and freeze according to manufacturer's instructions.
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