I have bought myself a present. An ice cream maker. One with its own compressor, that freezes as well as mixing. I've wanted one for ages. I nearly bought one last summer, but researched myself to a standstill looking at reviews of various models on different websites, until I didn't know which I wanted, and then the cat broke his leg and the money that would have paid for the ice cream maker went on vet's bills.
I adore ice cream. I have since infancy. When I was a baby my father got the post of distinguished visiting professor at an American university, and we lived in the States for a year, which included a six week road trip to see some of the country. Sadly, I remember nothing at all about it, and the fact that I have been to the Yosemite National Park is completely wasted on me. My mother tells me that I could spot an ice cream sign from a moving vehicle at fifty yards, and correctly distinguish adverts for ice cream from petrol, and all other commodities. This story may include an element of maternal embellishment, but certainly one of the earliest photographs of me shows me clutching an ice cream cone. Quite a lot of the ice cream is smeared over my face, and I look very, very happy.
Nowadays friends and relatives in restaurants are often surprised that I want ice cream. Not the tiramisu, or the lemon tart, but plain ice cream. Sometimes even just vanilla ice cream. I have eaten a Magnum at the end of Clacton Pier in the rain. At the seaside ice cream is what you eat, and a bit of rain doesn't matter. A trip to the Mercury Theatre is not complete without a honey and ginger tub in the interval. The Mercury does very nice ice creams, better than Magnums. I always have a cone at some point during the Chelsea Flower Show, whether it's hot and sunny that year, or cold and wet. (Also Pimms, which is the Systems Administrator's treat. I wonder if you can make Pimms ice cream?). The rosewater and cardamon ice cream at Moro was one of the most sublime things I ever ate, back in the days when I used to be taken to lunch there. There's a recipe for that in the Moro cookery book.
Loving ice cream, I wanted to make my own. I know people who swear by the machines that only stir the mixture, while the freezing element is provided by a bowl that has been chilled right down in the freezer, but I didn't want that. I didn't want the hassle of jiggling things around in the freezer to find space for the bowl, and to have to think about making ice cream hours in advance, and I wasn't really convinced that the frozen bowl would do the job, in high summer in a kitchen also containing an Aga. I wanted the Rolls Royce of ice cream machines, the Big Daddy, the ultimate freezer and stirrer, the real McCoy. I don't buy any kind of electrical or mechanical equipment very often, but I have noticed how much nicer my gardening digital radio is, that seemed to cost a ridiculous amount of money for a radio, than the budget digital radio that I bought for my bathroom. Buy seldom and buy quality is a good maxim.
In the end I bypassed Consumer Which and all comparison sites except for the Amazon user reviews. The clear winner appeared to be the Gaggia Gelateria. Lots of users said how quiet it was, and none of them complained that the paddles broke off in the ice cream. There is the option of mixing the ice cream in a removable bowl, which means that you have to use spirits as a conductor between that bowl and the one fixed in the machine, or the fixed bowl, which makes cleaning the machine more of a chore, but saves on cheap vodka. I thought I'd see how it went between the fixed bowl and the removable.
It is true that for the cost of the machine I could have bought an awful lot of tubs of Haagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream, and even with the machine ice cream will not be cheap given that I have to supply the ingredients (although once I progress to ice cream made using custard that will use up some eggs). Haagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream is very nice, one of my favourites, and the big tabby likes it too. He can detect you opening a tub of the stuff from another room and instantly appears, dribbling, and hoping for a share. The cost of the ice cream is not the point. The point is that I like ice cream, a lot, and I want to make my own, progressing from plain vanilla to all the most amazing fruit concoctions I can imagine, or find in Caroline Weir's definitive book on the subject, when it arrives.
Now I am possessed of a mansion, but may not enter it, because the machine has to be allowed to stand for at least twelve hours before use to allow the coolant to settle. I have read the booklet carefully, and it all looks straightforward. There is a button to press to pre-freeze the machine, a timer, a button to press to start the paddles turning, and away you go. The instructions sound charmingly as if they had been translated from Italian, and state that 'In case the ice cream becomes too hard, the motor stops by itself. The safety device protects the motor from possible damages in case you did not switch it off on time' which is not quite how a native English speaker would put it, but reassuring.
The Systems Administrator, on hearing that I'd finally ordered an ice cream maker, remarked that it would probably be snowing by next weekend. The weather is forecast to become more unsettled again, but never mind. I am quite prepared to eat ice cream, even if it is snowing.
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