Sometimes I feel determined to prove that my place in the world is “manic hipster dream girl” and at times like that I ask chaos to bring home goat milk so I can make ice cream.
This is one of those times.
Ice cream is too fiddly for me to talk about process. I use internet recipes and a lot of hope. This one has an egg custard base and I had to skip the blender directions. My blender doesn’t go “slow” because it is a motherfucking ninjashark. If you want to temper the old-fashioned way, watch this video. I liked her. She was clear and helpful, and has a necklace just like one of my very favorite necklaces (which has no bearing on her ability to make ice cream, obvs, but does make me instinctively trust her).
The best part of watching that video is that when the goat milk and honey mixture started to boil over, I didn’t panic (as much). I blew on it to break the skin, just like the video taught me. I still lost many of the precious real vanilla bean specks, lost forever on the stovetop.
Now it is chilling (not like a villain because only fools drop the g just for a cheap dated rhyme) and later tonight I’ll run it through the ice cream maker, report back, and finish this post.
I made meatballs and marinara sauce for dinner and watched a bit of Northanger Abbey.* As time flows only forwards and I become older, not younger, I decided against allowing the flavors to meld overnight. I poured the proto ice cream into the machine and let it churn for about 20 minutes. Now it lurks in the freezer, hardening, but before I put it there I filched a spoonful; the taste is complex and barely sweet, like thistles and mushrooms and nectar.
We are eating bowls of what chaos calls “the most complex ice cream that’s ever existed” with chocolate syrup. So. Good. NOM.
* The species enslaved by humanity for me to enjoy my evening include cows, sheep, goats, durum wheat, ITV costume designers, and bees.