When it comes to ice cream, people always ask “hand-dipped or soft serve”. I say “both”. Truthfully my taste buds couldn’t care less if the tongue they’re attached to wraps around a big ole ball of Bruster’s or takes a swipe out of a curly top from Dairy Queen.
When I was a kid, we always had a couple of half gallons of ice milk in the freezer. I’ll grant you that ice cream is better, but when you have two growing boys and a shrinking budget, you make do. We were just glad to have something to pour our Bosco on. Another favorite topping on the cheap was PDQ. For those unfamiliar, PDQ was a chocolate drink mix you put in milk. Unlike other brands, PDQ was a granular mix that resembled little pieces of that lava rock they use in gas grills to simulate coals.
Back then we didn’t go out to eat much or even just to get an ice cream. So, when we did, it was a big deal. Occasionally, the folks would load us into the Pontiac and head for DQ. I’m sure my dad didn’t mind on the way there, but likely regretted it on the return trip.
“Lemme have a lick.”
“No, you have your own.”
“Mom, Michael is trying lick my curly top.”
“Don’t make me pull this car over.” That was my father talking. He was a quiet man, so when he spoke, you had not only better listen, you’d better respond. When I became a father, I learned that “don’t make me pull this car over” is dad speak for “shut-up and eat your ice cream or I’ll eat it for you”!
We lived only about two miles from the DQ. But when you’re six or seven, it feels like you’re driving to the moon. Are we ever going to get there? Today, I live near my old house and drive that same street every day. It takes all of 5 minutes to get to the DQ. When you’re a kid, and there’s ice cream on the other end of the journey, 5 minutes might as well be 5 days.
Those were the days when they served the sundaes in bowls made with a very thick plastic. They were so durable, that you could wash and reuse them to hold homemade sundaes. That’s exactly what we did. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if the bowls and parfait dishes were as flimsy as they are now. My mother never met a piece of plastic she didn’t save to use again. Tupperware? Who needed that when you had a cabinet full of empty margarine containers? These days she'd be considered environmentally concious. Back then they called it "thrifty" because this kind of recycling wasn't about saving the planet. It was about saving money.
Most Sundays my mother cooked a big meal for lunch. Then you were on your own for supper. That meant leftovers or snack dinners. It also meant she wasn’t cooking again until Monday. Many an evening, Dad and I would enjoy mayo and Ritz crackers. Then it was time for our Sunday sundaes. Out came the DQ dishes, the nuts, chocolate syrup, and whatever type of ice milk was in the freezer.
If my kids read this, they’ll wonder why we didn’t do that when they were growing up. Some traditions just skip a generation.
The DQ runs and homemade sundaes were great, but the real treat—the frozen grail of dessertdom—was homemade ice cream. And I mean the real stuff. Oh, occasionally mom would resort to a recipe for ice milk, but most of the time she made it from real custard. Now THAT’S living!
We had an electric churn. My dad had grown up on a farm and felt he had turned his fair share of cranks on churns, tractors, and cars. He was a man who embraced the 20th century and all of it’s time-saving goodies.
I would help add the salt and the ice as needed. When we heard the machine bog down and groan against its load of firm sweetness, we’d pull the plug and wait for it to finish setting. Then it was time to get the bowls and spoons, but no toppings. Putting chocolate syrup on mom’s custard ice cream would be like putting ketchup on manna: a true sacrilege.
The churn was always placed in the middle of the picnic table that dad built. No matter where we lived, it was always sitting under the nearest shade tree. Many a meal was eaten at the table, but no gatherings were as sweet as ice cream churnings.
The thing about homemade ice cream is that whatever might be leftover doesn’t freeze well. It just isn’t as good the next day. Some see this as a problem. Dad and I saw it as a challenge. A challenge that was met with gusto and a big spoon. It was on those days that I learned that my dad and I could eat large quantities of ice cream without becoming sick. Okay, so it's not exactly a super power, but it’s a blessing for which I am thankful.
As I began to get a concept of the world, I concluded that being successful meant having the wherewithal to buy ice cream anytime you wanted. The problem is that when I could, I did. Then I learned that if people start using the term “chunky monkey” and that’s not the flavor of ice cream in your bowl, it’s time to redefine your idea of success.
All of this is to say that Thursday, July 25, is Miracle Treat Day at Dairy Queen. That’s when a portion of the proceeds from the purchase of a Blizzard goes to help Children’s Miracle Network Hospitals. I am not receiving any compensation for plugging this. I just believe in the joy of ice cream and spreading a little of that joy to children who could certainly use it.
Whatever I may say about watching what I eat, I will sit down with my Butterfinger Blizzard and enjoy every bite without guilt. But I won’t be eating alone. I am certain that kid who spent summer days running through the sprinkler, wandering through the woods with his trusty dog and discovering that eating homemade ice cream around a homemade picnic table was as much about the people he shared it with as it was the ice cream, will show up.
I hope you’ll do the same, whatever your favorite flavor may be.
