The Crank Will Not Go Round

The hand-crank freezer comes up from the basement on the first June evening that is too warm for the kitchen, and the work of ice cream begins on the porch. The wooden tub is dry from a year in storage; the galvanized can goes in, the dasher with its two blades, the crank that locks onto the lid. The custard is already made — cream, eggs, sugar, a pinch of salt — and it has sat in the refrigerator since last night, covered, beside the empty can that went in to chill.

The night before

The custard is made in the kitchen, late, when the day's heat has finally left the windows open. Eggs are cracked into a bowl and beaten with sugar until pale; cream goes into a pan; the beaten eggs are stirred into the cream over a medium flame. Whoever is at the stove stirs without stopping, a wooden spoon scraping the bottom, until the mixture is thick enough to coat the spoon — the way to tell is to draw a finger across the spoon's back and see the line stay. The vanilla goes in after the pan comes off the stove, and the custard is set in a sink of cold water to come down, then covered and put in the refrigerator. The can and the dasher go in beside it. By morning, the custard has set and the can fogs a hand set against it.

The ice

In the June afternoon, there is a trip for ice. It comes in a clear bag from the grocery store or from the ice house at the edge of town, a block that has been cut to order. The block is wrapped in a towel and cracked on the porch floor with the flat of a hammer — or driven with an ice pick along the seam, letting the big chunks split. The pieces are meant to be the size of a fist, small enough to pack tight around the can but big enough to last. The rock salt comes in a paper sack, coarse and grey-pink. The tub is set on the porch floor, on the boards that have held the day's sun. The cracked ice is shoveled into a bucket by the handful, and the salt is set within reach.

Packing the tub

The chilled can comes out of the refrigerator; the custard is poured in, not quite to the top, because freezing needs room to rise. The dasher is dropped in with its two blades down, the lid clamped on, the crank fitted to the top. Then the packing: a layer of ice on the bottom of the tub, a scatter of salt, the can in the middle, and ice packed around it by hand, a scoop at a time, salt thrown in at intervals — rock salt melts the ice, and melting is what pulls the heat out of the custard. The ice is packed to the top of the tub. The first turns of the crank are easy and regular; inside, the dasher moves through liquid. At the bottom of the tub, meltwater starts to run from the drain hole.

The turning

The turning is done in shifts, because one arm will not last. Whoever is at the crank sits on the porch steps or on a kitchen chair drawn out to the tub. The motion is a steady circle, not fast — too fast and the custard never freezes, too slow and the ice melts ahead of the cream. One hand turns while the other holds the tub steady. The brine runs out of the drain hole and makes a wet spot on the boards; the level of the ice settles as it melts, and someone packs more ice down around the can. When the arm starts to burn, the person at the crank stands up without a word and whoever is next sits down and takes the handle. Inside the can, the sloshing gets heavier, then slower, as the custard thickens against the cold.

The crank will not go round

The moment comes when the crank will not go round. It is not a decision; the handle simply stops in the hand, held by the frozen custard packed against the dasher. A little force finds a little give, and then nothing. Someone else tries; it is solid. The lid is wiped with a dish towel to keep brine out of the can, and the crank is lifted off. The dasher comes up out of the custard with ice cream clinging to its blades, and the custard itself is soft — thick enough to hold the hole the dasher has left, but not yet hard. The dasher goes to whoever is standing closest, and the first taste is had off the blades.

The pack

The freezer is not done. The crank is replaced, the lid set back, and the can is packed down again — fresh ice packed hard around it, more rock salt thrown in. A burlap sack or a folded newspaper goes over the top. Inside, the ice cream stiffens from soft to solid over the course of an hour, and the brine drips from the drain hole into the same wet spot on the boards.

Turning out

When the hour is up, the sack comes off and the ice is cleared from the top of the can. The lid is wiped dry and lifted; the can is pulled from the ice with a twist, the brine dripping. The ice cream is scooped out — it comes out in round scoops, or in thick slices if the spoon is not strong enough. Bowls are handed around on the porch; the evening is still warm, and June dark comes late; the first lightning bugs are working the hedge. The can goes around again for those who want more, and the empty bowls are set down on the porch rail while the last light is still in the yard.

The rinse

The can is carried to the kitchen and rinsed in the sink, the dasher washed, the crank arm wiped. The tub is drained and set on its edge on the porch boards to dry, the iron band wiped of brine so it will not rust. The freezer goes back to the basement, the wooden tub dry and white where the salt has leached into the wood, the crank arm pointed at the wall.