Fourth Of July Treat

1935

WHEN DAD returned from the barn, smiled and said the farm work was caught up, we knew it was almost the Fourth of July, time for our once-a-year homemade ice cream.

Dad would never go away if there was plowing or planting to be done.

When he said we were going to Aunt Myrtie’s on Sunday, we were excited because a trip didn’t happen too often.

Aunt Myrtle and Uncle Ira lived in Conover, Ohio, and this year, they wanted to have the celebration.

Everybody brought food—fried chicken, mashed potatoes and white chicken gravy were the favorites. Grandma would bring pie and cake.

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We loved to watch Uncle Ira eat because he always teased us. His plate would be layered; mashed potatoes and gravy on the bottom, vegetables on top. Whatever there was to eat, he formed a pyramid on his plate.

We girls watched all of this with fascination.

“It all goes to the same place,” he’d say, then dig in.

When dinner was over, the women cleaned up and we five cousins, including my sisters Phyllis and Linda, were shooed out into the yard to play. We couldn’t wait for the ice cream, and we begged our dads and Grandpa to get the ice.

They never took us with them because we chattered too much and the men didn’t get together very often. It was a short drive to the icehouse, and they soon returned with a block of ice in a burlap sack.

“You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream,” was our rallying cry.

The men got the freezer ready. It was wooden, with iron bands to keep it tight. There was a hole near the top so the melted ice water could run off. The 2-quart metal freezer went in the middle and fit into a hole in the bottom of the bucket.

The handle locked into the top, and it was hand-cranked until it got too hard to turn.

The men used the flat side of a hatchet and broke the ice block into small pieces. Cooked vanilla custard was then poured into the metal container. The lids and crank were put in place, and layers of crushed ice and salt were pour-ed around the container.

“Why do you use salt, Dad?” one of us asked.

“Because the ice has to melt to make the ice cream freeze,” Dad replied.

That never made sense to us, but we kept asking, in hopes that it would someday.

While they cranked, they talked about the Cincinnati Reds, everyone’s crops and the latest farm machinery. It made us happy to watch them talk and laugh together.

Grandpa would give us slivers of ice with the bottoms wrapped in newspaper so it wouldn’t get too cold to hold. It sure tasted good on a very hot Fourth of July.

The churning was done outside, by the cellar door. The double doors were wide-open, and cool air blew up the stairs on the crankers and the watchers.

Finally, when the crank would turn no more, Dad would say, “You can’t eat it yet; it has to ripen if you want good ice cream.”

Then he packed more ice on top of the churn and covered it with the burlap bag. The freezer was carried into the cellar, much to our dismay.

It was a long hour until they headed for the cellar and brought up the freezer. The bag came off, the ice was brushed from the lid of the container and we held our breaths as Uncle Ira pulled the lid loose.

“Wow!” he exclaimed as the paddle was pulled from the freezer. Mom handed us spoons to eat the frozen custard from the paddle.

Nothing ever tasted as good as that first taste of home-churned ice cream.

When it was all eaten, we cousins sighed and wondered how long it was until the next Fourth of July.

By Phyllis Stradling Folsom, Chelan, Washington