Homemade Ice Cream – Henry County Times

Homemade ice cream is the kind of thing that brings grown men to tears of joy. Lots of half and half cream. Eagle brand condensed milk. Lawd, I almost cut my tongue licking the inside of the box. Eggs. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Then a good serving of whatever you think makes up the perfect flavor.

Berea Christian Church used to hold a summer revival during the first week of August. I’m sure the preaching was good. But I was a kid. What do the children know? Well, kids know ice cream. And though Tuesday night after the sermon was watermelon night; Thursday night was homemade ice cream night.

Jesus could have preached on Wednesday, but the crowd on Thursday would have been bigger. That’s the power of ice cream. If Jesus had had ice cream, he would have had to feed 10,000, not 5,000. There would have been 47 apostles, not 12. The implications are overwhelming.

The women of the church saw it all as a kind of competition. Crank-operated wonder wood churns. Banana. Chocolate. The Peach. Strawberry. Pecan Carmel. Coffee. Even peanut butter. And of course 31 silky vanilla textures. No one had even heard of The Marble Slab or Baskin Robins back then. You take a bite and fall into a coma. Little children staggering to the floor in brain freezing pains.

“Well, that’s what you get when you eat it too fast. Take it easy.”

We had no time to slow down. Churns of sensual temptations were calling our name.

Mrs. Jones (false name to protect the innocent) was the only one bringing the peanut butter ice cream. The men boasted a bit too much. The wives were giving sidelong glances that said, “Be careful. You have to come home with me. There, at the church, under the old oaks, the competition was hot.

I don’t know if our son-in-law had ever eaten homemade ice cream before he met us, but I do know this: after he met us, and after he tasted my wife’s elixir of heaven in a churn, and after he asked my daughter to marry him; the next thing he asked for as a wedding present was an ice cream churn. Again, it’s the power of ice cream.

We were at their house not long ago for their little one’s birthday. She was turning one. I found they were now a two-churn family and vanilla and peach concoctions were in the works for the afternoon. I swelled with pride. I thought about telling everyone that this was the result of my influence in their lives. I wanted to take credit for myself. But her parents were there, and my mom didn’t raise a fool.

What is surprising is that there were people present who had never eaten homemade ice cream. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

“Can you really make your own ice cream?”

“Yeah, I had homemade ice cream once, and it was soupy and not so good.”

My wife made two peach cobblers to go with the ice cream and by the end of the evening we were all in a coma. The cans were empty. The men were crying. All were converted by the gospel of peach ice cream over hot peach cobbler. The opponents had been killed. And that, my friends, is the power of ice cream.

Paul W. Chappell is a former Hampton resident. Subscribe to her blog – Georgia Bred / Stories That Matter at https://georgiabred56.com/. A book of his columns is available for purchase on Amazon and on his website.

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