I’ve been craving an ice cream sundae. But not just any old ice-cream-hot-fudge-cherry-on-top concoction. I want luscious creamy vanilla frozen custard, topped with dark chocolate fudge sauce and maybe a little salty caramel, finished with freshly whipped cream and a cherry. Preferably served in an antique ice cream parlor glass with an extra long spoon.
What can I say? Cletus the Fetus is very specific about his needs.
I got a few good suggestions for possible sundae sources from my Facebook pals, but ultimately decided I would only be able to quell the ice cream appetite fully by making my own sundae. So I broke out the dusty ice cream maker someone gave us when we got married (thank you!) and started Googling “vanilla ice cream base.”
And that’s how I found myself covered in vanilla bean seeds and heavy cream this morning, absently searching online for pictures of “custard coating back of spoon” while my ice cream base slowly turned to scrambled eggs on the stove. But don’t worry! I think I saved it. My custard is currently chilling in the fridge, waiting to be churned into what’s sure to be fetus-pleasing goodness. Or at least something that can be doctored up enough with chocolate fudge and caramel sauce.
Add that to the list of reasons why you will ever confuse this blog with a real food blog. You know, the ones with gorgeous photos of perfectly baked pies, complete with step-by-step photo instructions and notes on where to find each ingredient. My brain just doesn’t work that way.
Sure, I write about eating. I think probably about 80% of my posts are about shoving something delicious into my pie hole. I also love cooking and trying new recipes. But my approach in the kitchen is a little less…structured than I’d advise. I’m the kind of person who will set out to make the most amazing double-chocolate cheesecake, driving an hour to find the best artisanal single-source free-range chocolate. Then I’ll buy a dozen more eggs than I need and an extra spring form pan, only to get home and realize that I don’t have any sugar. Or cream cheese.
The first time my sister and I tried to make my mom’s famous dinner rolls from scratch, we decided to hit up Loehmann’s for some discount shopping while the dough sat to rise. We were gone for 4 hours. By the time we returned, shopping bags in hand, our dough ball was a sad little deflated mess. But that didn’t stop us from rolling it out and making rolls anyway. We later found several tucked in a houseplant after we tried to serve them at a family gathering.
That’s not to say I don’t make delicious things. They just somehow turn out delicious with a lot of luck and spontaneity in the kitchen. Pretty much nothing I make turns out the same way twice. And there are quite a few do-overs, along with the occasional “let’s just call it quits and order pizza.”
So, I will also never be a restaurant chef. Dang.