No, I haven’t made this. But I’m posting it because I want to. And saying it outloud makes it true, right?
My father has a unique set of cooking interests. Pizza crusts and homemade pizza, pies, homemade applesauce, frozen veggies with a stick of butter, cocktails and ice cream. He has an ice cream churn that was probably crafted by hand 300 years ago, rough estimate based on appearances. Every summer since I toddled, he made ice cream. The kind that crunches while it grinds ice and salt, then melts nearly immediately when it’s handed over. You leave the picnic bench drenched in vanilla, sugar and cream.
When I found this recipe, I immediately thought of him. It’s like pancakes. It’s homemade. And it incited memories of 30-some summers with him. Perfect.