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).
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.
A group of good friends, connected by a love of politics and good food, always used to get together every August in Santa Barbara. Life slowed down; we’d cook together using all local produce – sweet corn, plum tomatoes, Armenian cucumbers, peppers, tomatillos, Blenheim apricots, avocadoes, Santa Rosa plums – and then feast as the sun went down behind rolling hills planted with avocadoes and lemons. 