To start, this is evidence of how much my love of ice cream reigned in my childhood.
(I am the older one.)
So starts the fascination of ice cream. Over the years, I always chose the ice cream (or sorbet if I was feeling too heavy) on the dessert menu. Cakes, pies, cookies? Absolutely not when a creamy cold something was readily available.
More importantly in my late 20s, ice cream became a symbol for everything that I loved and everything that I didn’t. Friends couldn’t ask me out for a drink (or pizza), because I absolutely disliked both. The culture of living in the Mission neighborhood in San Francisco had been grating on me—sitting around on squeaky vinyl chairs while people got sloshed on Irish car bombs or stuffing full beer bellies with slimy dough surrounded by melted cheese was not my thing.
Until this thing called… artisanal ice cream popped up in the neighborhood. It was my excuse to hang out with people in long lines. For my 29th birthday, I paraded my friends around the neighborhood to my favorite ice cream stores. I outlasted every single one of them (despite my awareness that I was moving toward lactose intolerance…) Ice cream brought delight, smiles.
And so here starts the journey of creating 31 flavors. From travel, from people I meet, from this thing that causes smiles only visible from childhood. I want to learn how to make ice cream, how others do it well, how to develop the simple pleasure created from a simple frozen scientific process using cream, milk, and sugar.