Summer brings long days, hot weather, and a symphony of seasonal sound. Crickets. Baseball ball games.  Steaks sizzling on the grill.  Children playing.  And the unmistakable music of ice cream trucks.  With tinkling melodies pouring forth these motorized Pied Pipers roll through the streets, and children come running from all directions. Clutching fistfuls of coins, they surround the truck like honeybees around a flower, then straggle away blissfully licking their favorite ice cream treats.

Frozen confections come in many forms. Cones piled high with teetering scoops. Soft slurpy swirls.  Popsicles.  Cookie sandwiches.  Sodas and shakes.  Fruit juice bars. Gelatos and granitas.  Sherbets and sorbets.  Luscious sundaes swimming in sweet sauces, dusted with toppings and crowned in whipped cream. We can thank modern refrigeration techniques for the myriad of choices available, but the desire to cool off with a refreshing cold treat on a hot sweltering day has been around since antiquity.

In Margate, New Jersey, there is an ice cream shop that time forgot. It is called Two Cents Plain and it has little white wire chairs with red and white striped seats, red and white wallpaper festooned with whimsical line drawings of flappers in long necklaces and gents in boaters, and a jar on the counter where customers can deposit tip money for the scoopers’ college funds. It looks just the same today as it did in 1979, when I had my fifth birthday party there.

We had the whole place to ourselves that day! What a thrill for a five-year-old. More thrilling still were the ice cream “clowns” (still on the menu) which were presented thusly: a scoop of ice cream on a plate, and a sugar cone inverted on top as a hat, point side up, and a face drawn on the scoop of ice cream with Red Hots. I had asked for a baby sister for my birthday that year and instead was presented with a baby brother, and the ice cream clowns went a long way towards placating me.

For most of my dad’s young life, he lived above and worked at Felcher’s, his parents’ candy store/ neighborhood lunch counter, tucked between P and G's Bar and Grill and Simpson's Hardware Store on Amsterdam Avenue between 73 and 74th Streets. Christopher Morely, imagined the man of the future while watching my dad as a tiny boy play in front of that store and immortalized him in his novel Kitty Foyle.

Throughout college and law school my dad scooped ice cream and served meals at this lunch counter, as his then girlfriend, my mother, perched herself on a stool out front, eating fudgicles and enticing much of the passing parade, including Frank Gifford and his pals, the other NY Giants. I can still see the scoop my father kept from Felcher’s with its well-worn wooden handle and the scored thumb press that pushed a slim metal band, which would release the perfect scoop every time.

My husband Leo loves ice cream.  I like it, but he loves it. For a wedding present, we received a wooden ice cream maker that like the old fashioned ones, needed to be filled with ice and rock salt, but unlike the old fashioned ones, could be plugged in and churned the ice cream without the 'elbow grease.'  Once every few years, we'd pull it out and impress ourselves by making a batch of lovely vanilla ice cream, but it was always a big production for the results.  About 6 or 7 years ago, as a birthday gift for my ice cream loving husband who almost always has a quart of vanilla in the freezer, I bought a double Cuisinart automatic ice cream machine.  It consists of a motorized bottom, plastic churners and plastic covers with two metal containers which I keep in the freezer at all times.  

Despite the fact I have parents who eat ice cream almost every day (if they could have it at every meal, they would), until recently I thought I could live happily without ever lifting a dessert spoon again.

I know what you’re thinking. Quelle horreur! C’est impossible! I tell you it’s true. When I gave up my 2-liter a day Coca-Cola habit  in college in an effort to regain a good night's sleep (caffeine is not my friend), I found, after a few months, I no longer craved sugar. As my tastes matured, I discovered the savory complexity of wine and eating dessert no longer interested me. Since ice cream was never one of my favorites, I didn’t miss it.

I’m quite sure it’s in the genes. I know I got the ice cream-loving gene from my dad who got the gene from his mom. It’s that gene that forces me to direct my husband miles out of our way just to visit an ice cream store that makes their own ice cream. That same gene has been known to cause cravings that send me to bed with a spoon and a pint of my favorite frozen cream. I can eat ice cream morning, noon and night and never get enough. I can’t help it – it’s in my genes.

Fortunately for me, my sons each have the gene. Those with this specific ice cream gene like to hang out with others who have the gene. Both sons chose ice cream-loving wives. So far, it seems each grandchild has been gifted with the gene. Oh, I am lucky to have so many who are always ready to share a cold dreamy treat. Did I say share? I didn’t mean it. My friends and family all know that I’ll share just about anything – except ice cream.

It was a Pavlovian response.  Not just the salivating and the excitement, but the begging my mother for coins, the heart- pounding fear I’d miss it, then the shrieking, running out to the street to see the white truck with the painting of the ice cream bar on the side cruising slowly down the hill.

Fat chance I’d miss the Good Humor man—he had a vested interest in not being missed.  He thoroughly enjoyed selling his wares and making kids happy in our stultifyingly hot, humid summer suburbs.  But the happy memory of that children’s song’s tinkle can still make me drool, (much like a fountain’s trickle can still make me tinkle).

When was the last time you ate something that made time stop and took you back to your childhood? Berthillon  in Paris is a dreamy ice cream shop on the Isle St. Louis that will do just that...They make the World’s best hot fudge sundae, period!

There are so many choices of ice cream and sorbets, that are all freshly made in-house. The ice cream case is filled with colors and texture like a Tiffany’s jewelry case without the armed guard. Most well-heeled patrons can hardly decide, pointing, discussing and trying small spoonfuls. Not me.

Just recently my mother asked me to pick up some vanilla ice cream she wanted to serve with a pie she had made. I came home with a gallon of 'Pet' vanilla ice cream. She asked me why, out of all the brands at the grocery store, would I choose 'Pet?' I told her   grocery store ice cream,whether it be Ben and Jerry's, Hagen Daaz or Pet all tasted the same to me and that Pet was the cheapest. 

When I was growing up, my mother would make homemade ice cream in the summer from the local peaches using a hand-cranked ice cream churn. We would take turns "churning" and adding endless amounts of rock salt for what seemed like hours until it was ready. That is what ice cream is supposed to taste like and if you've never had homemade ice cream, do yourself a favor a buy an ice cream churn. They make electric ones now with no hand crank churning required.

I have never mastered the art of making ice cream.  Hard to believe since every cookbook I read tells me how simple it really is. I bought a snazzy red Cuisinart ice cream maker and I even have an extra drum sitting in my freezer so that I have the illusion that I can always whip up a batch of fresh ice cream at the drop of a hat.  

Here’s my stumbling block: I am a multi-tasker.  I can’t help it. I’m not sure if I was one before I became a single mom, but I’m definitely one now. Producing that perfect, delectable treat must be intended for a more single-minded person than myself. If one cooks the custard even a second too long the result is a curdled egg mixture that is definitely never destined to become a delicious, smooth, cold, creamy, delectable anything. 

Apparently we aren't the only one's obsessed with ice cream this month. While meadering around the web we found the "You Scream, I Scream, We All Scream for Frozen Desserts Roundup" on Mike's Table, that called out to all food bloggers to share their best/favorite recipes for ice, cold, creamy treats.

The response is so impressive and inspirational (Vanilla Basil, Roasted Peach, Carmelized Mango, Mint Julep Gelato, Dark Chocolate Kahlua Brownie Crunch), even to those of us who aren't constantly begging for more, that we had to share. After checking out some of the entries, we are now "thisclose" to splurging on an ice cream machine. 

Check it out

It may be harder to find a sweet treat in your neighborhood this summer. The poor economy is taking a toll on ice cream truck operators.

Numbers just out from the Labor Department show dairy prices rose 1.6% from May to June. Gas prices went up more than 10% in the same period.

It's a familiar song, and a truck you may recognize. But, this truck isn't going anywhere. Mr. Softee, or in this case, Mrs. Softee serves up treats at festivals to help deal with higher gas prices.

"If it's empty, it costs me 80-dollars to fill it," said Phyllis Maloney, ice cream truck driver. "Which runs me two days. Regular for the front engine and diesel for the generator which runs all the equipment."

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