My weekly Porch Story!!

Another Porch Story:

When folks talk about "the good old days," I sometimes wonder if they have ever sat on a creaky front porch in the middle of July, sweating through their clothes, cranking an old ice cream machine like their very life depended on it?

Let me tell you, as a kid, that job felt like a punishment disguised as a treat. Dad would bring out the ice cream maker on special occasions such as birthdays, 4th of July... or sometimes just on a particularly hot day when he felt like spoiling us.

 It was one of those old-fashioned wooden bucket machines with the metal crank on the side (much like the one shown above) ...This machine was never in a hurry... slow and easy is the only level it knew.   You didn't just plug it in and wait, no sir!  You had to earn that sweetness.

We would haul the ice cream maker out to the front porch along with the box of rock salt and blocks of ice.  First came Dad's special recipe that he guarded like it was the nation's gold reserve. Cream, sugar, vanilla, eggs, milk and the SECRET ingredients that he never would tell us about, but we all knew it was love that made it magic. Then would come the ice and the salt and it had to be layered in a certain way.  Adding the ice and the salt was our favorite part, but dad always made sure we didn't get any of the salt too close to lid.  

Next was the dreaded part, the cranking!

"Oh, it's easy," Dad would say, flashing a grin that made you suspicious. "Just keep it turning till it gets stiff."  Stiff?  Ha! It started out like a casual arm workout and ended up like a full-body military drill. One by one, we'd take our turns: me, my sister and my two brothers, all of us groaning, trading off like a team of sweaty, short tempered kids.  One would turn the crank while another one of us would sit on the towel...on top of the machine.  I guess the extra weight added to the churning and it sure added extra work for the one doing the cranking... Our Mom enjoyed having a break from the kitchen, so she would sit and just enjoy the evening...and of course, the jokes that dad was always playing on us....

"I think it's ready," one of us would plead after only five minutes. "Nope," Dad would say, poking at the top and quickly announcing that it was still soupy.  He knew all along that the ice cream wasn't ready after five minutes of churning...He just enjoyed playing around with us....Kinda like getting our hopes up a little early.   Soupy was the one word that seemed to crush our dreams.  We were ready for that silver can full of goodness to get firm...... ICE CREAM. 🍨

We would all sit back down in a criss cross apple-sauce style, trying to ignore that it would soon be our time to take over the cranking. Then, finally, finally, Dad would nod and say the magic words: "She's ready."

And just like that, all the pain, sweat and drama would disappear.  We would crowd around like little greedy puppies, watching as he opened the lid and cold fog swirling out like a cloud from heaven. No other ice cream in the world has ever tasted better than his. It was cold and creamy, with a small hint of magic that was mixed with some vanilla dreams.

We each would get one bowl. After we all got a big bowl, there were NO seconds available.  BUT... Here was the deal, the dasher in the middle of the tub went to the person who did the most cranking. Dad would be the one to announce who would get the honors of licking that thing clean.  I think he always kept up with it and knew before the ice cream making even begun, who had the pleasure last time and the time before.  He knew exactly who was next in line to enjoy the last bites of the yumminess.   

That ice cream disappeared faster than you could say "brain freeze." Hours to make (it seemed like) and minutes to devour, but that was the beauty of it. The waiting made it sweeter. The cranking made it memorable, and Dad's love made it unforgettable.

Yes, the old front porch was the perfect place for making ice cream and creating memories. This is just one of the reasons I have great memories of not only my grandmother's porch, but my family's gray painted porch as well....

I do love my "Porch" stories....They are sweet memories in my heart.  

Shug....🍦