My daughter spent a night at the farmhouse the other day. In the morning she asks me – remember that vocal group, Sweet Honey in the Rock? We used to listen to their songs when we were little? I was reminded of their song “No Mirrors in my Nana’s house...” I admit it – she is correct: there are no mirrors in the farmhouse. I take that back: there’s a little one near the bathroom sink. You can check your teeth there to see if you’ve gotten all the poppyseeds out if you need to. Like Ed, I haven’t much use for mirrors.
But I also admit that today I decided I do have a great use for something: an ice cream machine. You could say that the raspberries pushed me there. Maybe. But truthfully it was more the fault of one of my fellow bloggers. When she described her daily ice cream habit – I thought, that’s right. This is what I am missing: good ice cream.
Now, I do know that I live in a dairy state that prides itself on making the best ice cream in the country. Oh, it's good, sure it is. Creamy and sweet, laden with chocolate and syrups and caramel and nuts, yes, all good, but, especially on hot days, it is a tad overwhelming. I prefer, for these days, small scoops of fruit-laden ice creams. I love chunks of peaches and berries. And blueberry ice cream and black currant ice cream and in the winter, too, I love the impossible to find honey ice cream, with maybe a touch of lavender or orange. And I quite like yogurt ice cream, but not the frozen yogurt that comes out as airy soft swirl – I like it to be creamy and tangy all at the same time, with flavors that are intensely tied to the season.
Thanks, Golden West for the ice cream nudge and thanks, too, to commenter Trudy for the raspberry vinegar tonic suggestion. It’s on the “to make” list as well.
In other news – on this hot hot HOT day, we took out our bikes and zipped down to the Oasis Café. I heard Paul say that he had not served many hot coffees today. Well now, I happen to love hot espresso on a supremely hot day. There’s a match there that’s hard for me to explain.
Paul marveled that we had chosen this day to bike over. In the heat of the afternoon, no less. Oh, but you know, I’ve missed biking for coffee. When you motorbike, you don’t pause to smell the roses.
Or rather, the Queen Ann’s Lace. Or cone flowers. Or something (what?) that has the fragrance of wild honey. It’s all worth wiping a wet brow for. Oh, those hot, beautiful days of summer!