Ice Cream Without a Machine
We have never owned an ice cream machine. Nonna's machine in the old flat was a grey canister that turned all afternoon and made a noise like a small washing machine, and it was broken more often than it worked, so it was never much of an inheritance. Everything we make now comes from the freezer, a wooden spoon, and an hour of patience that nobody in this family finds easy.
The method is old and unglamorous. You mix the base in a bowl, put it in shallow metal trays about two fingers deep, and set them in the coldest part of the freezer. After half an hour you take out the first tray and scrape it down with a fork, breaking up the crust that has formed on top. Then you put it back and do the same to the next tray. You repeat this every half hour, three or four times, until the mixture turns pale and holds its shape.
Then you scrape it into a tub lined with paper, press it down flat, and leave it alone for a few hours. The scraping is the part that cannot be skipped. Skip it and you get a hard block with ice in it. Do it and you get something light enough that two people cannot finish a bowl.
Vanilla is our baseline and we never get tired of it, though Elena puts lemon zest in hers and my mother insists that a spoon of olive oil makes it taste like the ice cream from the coast. The plain one is the one we make for other people. We have made this in July heat, in November rain, and once during a power cut that we still do not discuss.