Ice Cream Dreams

 

Roman Gelato

Ice Cream Dreams

 

There is a small, tiny actually, gelato shop on a side street in Rome.  And when I walked in, I was greeted with “Buongiorno!,” said in a tender cadence that’s hard to master….and harder to forget.  She smiled, as though greeting a relative and I damn near forgot about the gelato.  

 

There was quite an array of flavors for a hole-in-the-wall shop. But, since pistachio was my mother’s favorite, wherever I go I tend toward the sweet flavor and aroma and the bright and surprisingly crunchy kick.

 

Gelato has a creamy softness that surpasses boyhood dreams, and that quickly becomes a cool savior on a sweltering afternoon.  The smile and buongiorno added to the heavenly softness.

 

By the way, you might as well forget the written Italian word for good day.  The spelling is only confusing.  Buongiorno is pronounced as simply bonjourno, much like the French bonjour, but with the j floating like a friendly cloud with a “no” tacked on.  Gelato, on the other hand, doesn’t need to be pronounced at all.  Pointing a forefinger at the flavor makes you fluent.

 

American gelato?  German gelato?  No way.  Gotta go to Rome.

 

Commercial American ice cream is hit or miss for me. Usually I can pass it up.  When I was a kid, we used to make our own.  We lived in Texas at the time of my first churning.  Ripe peaches and heavy cream blew the socks off anything in the grocery store.  It was a hand turned churn, and being a third grader, with arms the size of small, supple tree branches, it was a chore.  A steel cylinder in the middle, fastened to the sides with a capped churning handle.  Salted ice filled the rest of the brown, wooden bucket.  My mom did the prep work, seeding and peeling the fuzzy yellow and orange peaches, then chopping them into edible chunks, to add to the custard that cooked on the stove.  After the custard cooled, my work began.

 

“Momma, how long do I have to churn?”

 

“Until you can’t.  The ice cream has to be firm.”  But, of course mom and dad and I took turns. Afterwards came the interminable wait as mom pulled the paddle out of the steel container, sealed the ice cream in a glass bowl and put it in the freezer to ‘ripen.’  But, there was always some half frozen ice cream left on the paddle, which my little brother and I greedily shared, followed closely by a change of shirts and shorts.   Wish I had the recipe.

 

American ice cream is a simple concoction of milk, cream, and sugar, sometimes with egg yolks added.

 

And then there’s the Turkish version, which on the street is served in a carefree series of twists and turns, and is unlike any ice cream you’ll ever taste.

 

Hard to expain.  Better to let you see it!  

 

 

Interesting semi facts:

 

Most popular ice cream flavor?

 

In America and much of the world, vanilla reins supreme, with chocolate a distant second, unless you go to Spain where chocolate is king, or when you visit Central and South America, where you’ll find the general preference is dulce de leche, similar to caramel, but even among those countries there are differences.  In Mexico, for example, Neapolitan rules.

 

U.S. Ice cream with the highest fat content?

 

The FDA says ice cream must include at least 10% fat.  However, ice creams in the U.S. sometimes contain much more, usually up to 15 or even 25%.  So how can nonfat ice cream be called ice cream?  Can’t be, not in the U.S. where it is labeled “frozen desert.”

 

How is Gelato different from ice cream?

 

Gelato uses less cream and more milk.  Also ice cream often uses egg yolks in the custard.  I know my mother did.

 

Oddly enough, more milk, less cream and no egg yolks leads to gelato being creamier and softer.

 

How do they make fat free ice cream (frozen deserts)?

 

Complex at best.  A chemical problem that may include whey protein, use of other no fat or low fat milk products or other thickeners.  Home recipes may include any number of starches.  Corn starch often appears in the incredients.

 

Who invented the ice cream cone?

 

Around 1896, an Italian immigrant, Italo Marchioni opened a shop in New York City, selling his ice cream in cones.  He was granted a patent in 1903.

 

Who invented ice cream?

 

Very probable it was the Chinese, using buffalo milk, way back around the turn of the last millennium, or even earlier. But, it began more or less independently in other places as well, such as Charles I in England.  You may remember him as the king who lost both his kingdom and his head.

 

Ice cream came to America in the mid to late 1700s, with some famous names like Washington and Jefferson partaking.  Interestingly, in the 18^th Century in America, in some areas of the country it was illegal to sell “sinful” ice cream on Sunday.

 

Are there ice creams made from other than cow’s milk?

 

Turkish ice cream uses sheep’s milk, just to name one.  There are also lots of non-dairy frozen desserts around the world.  Is yogurt non-dairy?  Certainly not!  Yogurt is fermented milk.  Wait a sec….fermented?  So does yogurt contain alcohol?  Yes, ethanol is present in a lot of foods.

 

So, now, as far as I’m concerned, it’s time to either pull out the churn or buy tickets to Rome.

 

 

A French Love Story, or is it?

 

Café Maurice spills out on the broad, cobblestone street, with wooden café chairs and round, white marble tabletops on thin cast iron legs, protected from traffic by decorated concrete blocks painted a dark pink, with white lettering on the street side that spelled out the name. 

 

Helmut Silvester, attired in light colored slacks, whose creases could be used for felling trees, white shirt and blue sports coat, scratched his brain, his pen poised to continue. The story that plagued him was clear yesterday, but today, the bright fire dimmed into smoky ashes. Happens sometimes.  Ideas are as perishable as midnight dreams, or a woman’s love.

 

Maybe that was the problem. Citrina left him, without a hint of conversation, only a hurriedly scrolled scrap of yellow, ruled paper left among the ceramic nick knacks on the mantel. “This isn’t working.”

 

He'd bought her a box of beautifully engraved note cards  from Gaubert’s in La Place Dauphine. She could have used one of those.  Was he only worth a ragged piece of foolscap?

 

A sense of loss, a feeling of desperate loneliness slowly faded, but far from being replaced by calmness, his mood had become an impending storm.  The tide was turning, rolling onto the beach with a vicious roar.

 

She wasn’t worth the trouble!  Visions danced. Nothing was ever good enough for her.  The episode with the bracelet he’d bought her for her birthday.  Wrong color?  Gold with delicate streaks of silver when he should have known she only wore gold?  The dishes in the sink she plagued him about?

 

Ah, but the firm thighs, the happy breasts, the…none of that mattered now.

 

The waiter must have seen his building agitation, the promise of either harsh words or a crashing sweep of the arm across the small table.

 

“Perhaps Monsieur would care for a Cognac?”

 

Helmut glanced at his watch. “An Armagnac.”

 

“Très bien, Monsieur.”

 

He did need a drink, but drink could bring on a bout of melancholy.  That was what he didn’t need.  He’d finish his café au lait, polish off his Armagnac and take a walk.  Perhaps that might keep the dark dog of depression from pulling at the leash.

 

Helmut had problems.  First off, he was American, born and raised, unlike his parents. The second problem was his name, which fit well with his Austrian ancestry, but not so well with his workmates at Hendric & Thatcher.  Helmut morphed into Helmet Head, 

and then into simply Helmet. His countrymen could be so crude.

 

He was reasonably good looking, even with thick-lensed glasses, unruly brown hair, and an aquiline nose.  His French was reasonably good, unlike some of the swine he worked with.  His office was fairly small, but during this fine spring weather the window looked out on a row of green leafy trees that lined the rather charming ribbon of street some four stories below, or three stories if you used the continental habit of not considering the ground floor in the numbering system.  Poor old ground floor was a nothing, a zero. Perhaps it was, with its barren look of four brass elevator doors and an unnecessarily large, semi-circle reception desk. Had to do something to fill up the space, but certainly not important enough for it’s own number.

 

Helmut had a genius for numbers, almost instantly absorbing seemingly complicated company financial reports.  He could tell at a glance if numbers were fudged, if new earnings were overstated, and his cat-like agility could spot if a company was up to its knees in cement and about to be pushed overboard.

 

The stories he wrote as a sideline were also quite good, or at least good enough to be published in small, rather obscure literary magazines.  “I’m a writer,” was mostly good for conversation and a free drink in culture crazed Paris.  He knew the conversation by heart.

 

“And where might I find your work, monsieur?”

 

“In le this and la that magazines.”

 

The coffee had grown cold, much as his story had.  He took another sip of Armagnac, licked his forefinger, used it to touch a large flake on the small white plate, and brought it to his mouth, then shoved the plate aside, yet still staring at what was left of his croissant.  It wasn’t the buttery roll that drew his attention, but the color of it. The woman in his story was a blond, or was she?  How should he describe her hair?  What would you call the color of a croissant? Faded blond? Brownish blond?

 

“Monsieur?” asked the white-jacketed waiter.  He hadn’t even noticed him approaching.

 

“Encore un café, s’il vous plaît.”

 

“Et Armagnac?’

 

“Oui, merci.”

 

No need to hurry on this delightful Paris morning.

 

The waiter delicately balanced a small steel tray holding the snifter of amber liquor and a fresh cup of café au lait.  “Merci,” Helmut said, and with a nod, the waiter turned and walked away, stopping once to have a short conversation with the woman at another table.

 

Hearing the feminine voice, Helmut glanced up.  The woman three tables away had the same color of hair as his character, or so he supposed.  Perhaps he should ask her.  But what would he say?  Just noticed your hair and wondered what the hell color is it?  Croissant beige? Lightly moldy cheese?  Radiance of urine?  Ah, the anger was still with him and he had to discard it, or end up with a story unprintable and destined to be sweep by the wind through a beggar’s alley.

 

Perhaps he should start off lightly.  “Hi, they call me Helmet. Does that hair have a touch of jaundice?  And, do you often go out in public?  Wig makers on strike?” Gotta shake that anger!

 

Instead, he finished his petit-déjeuner, glanced once more in her direction, and strolled the three blocks to his office.  After the second small snifter of confidence builder, he’d forgotten about the story or the character, sat down at his desk and delved deeply into a yearly report.  It left him perplexed. It wasn’t that the numbers didn’t align, but that they did.  There’s always a flaw, a sin of omission, or a vagarity that the sharp financial eye will see. Normally, it’s nothing.   You read the year’s projection and disagree with that future earnings will be 5.1%.  You do the figures, or take a recent string of mildly bad news and come out with 5%.  Nothing more than the reader being less optimistic.

 

The next morning, he called the office, asked if anything were pressing and told the secretary he’d be in by early afternoon, then hurried off to his usual café, and ordered the usual croissant and milk coffee.  He noticed the same woman seated at the same table as before.  He studied her face and took a few notes for his story.  While his pen scratched the paper, a shadow crossed his table. He looked up.  The woman at the other table stood there.  He stood up quickly, wiping his lips and leaving his white napkin on the table, he greeted her politely,  “Oui, madame?”

 

“Bonjour, monsieur.  I saw you looking at me, but not quite looking at me.”

 

“Was I?  A thousand pardons.”  He gave a quick mea culpa nod of the head.

 

“You seemed to be studying me.  Have we met?”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

 

“You’re Helmut Silvester, are you not?”

 

“At your service, madame.”  His Austrian genes almost made him click his heels.

 

“Helmut Silvester, the writer, oui?” 

 

The question stunned him. He hesitated for one beat, two.  “The very same, madame.”  He offered another nod, as though accepting a knighthood from the queen.  But, the moment he said it, the shadow of suspicion crept in.  This meeting could not be by chance.  She obviously knew who he was before she approached.

 

As if reading his mind, she said, “I’m Julianne Baton, an editor at Esprit, and I like your work, your flair for the dramatic and with a philosophic bent.”

 

“Je suis débordé, madame.” I’m overwhelmed.  Esprit was the crème de la crème of Paris’ literary press.

 

She paid no attention to his modesty.  All writers were politely modest at first, before they turned into self-centered pricks, just like the lover who lived with her until the day before yesterday, when he glared at her, tossed his clothes in a suitcase and walked out the door of the small apartment.

 

She continued, “We are both swept up in the morning rush, but would you care to join me for dinner?  If Jean-Marie is free, he may join us.”  Jean-Marie?  Jean-Marie Domenach?  The director of Esprit? 

 

“Avec plaisir, madame!” he said, surprising himself by replying without a stammer. 

 

Up close she really didn’t look that bad.  In fact, her face showed a certain charm; her smile had already brightened his day. 

 

There’s something about French women.  A strong elegance, yet with an underlying soupcon of sexiness that can carry over into their eighties. This woman wasn’t even half that age. It’s a je ne sais quoi.  The way they walk.  The way their hands move with expressive grace. 

 

“If you’ve got a bit more time, we could have another Armagnac,” he said.  It befuddled him that he’d suggested so quickly, and in such a low tone, as if they could follow libations with a trip with the stairs to his apartment.

 

She surprised him, with a quick smile  “I prefer Cognac, even though c’est un peu tôt.”

 

“Yes it is a bit early, but I need not be at the office until afternoon, and even then…” leaving things implied but unsaid, in the French manner.

 

“Nor do I monsieur.” 

 

Her hair was beautifully blond after all, just like the woman in his story.  

 

 

 

Maté Factor, Savannah Georgia

 Maté Factor,  Savannah Georgia

 

It’s easy to step into a ‘Gimmeyerbucks’ for a caramel chocolate latté with whipped yak cream, or pop into a McDucks for a 55¢ senior coffee.

 

But, if you want great coffee, comfort, and a quaint spot to relax and enjoy your book, or have a quiet conversation with friends, you have to search, and you have to be particular.  I have a close friend who scratched his way through any number of goofle pages to find a gem in Savannah Georgia, Maté Factor, which is both coffee house and boutique bakery.

 

It’s a tiny, very quaint spot on a corner in a quiet section of town, with plenty of parking, which for Savannah is akin to finding a hundred dollar bill in your mailbox, two days in a row.

 

But, more about the Maté Factor, which as near as I can tell means mate factor, or girlfriend in French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese.  But, all those languages have so very many local dialects that I won’t take a bet.  Not blasting languages foreign to us, not when English has creek and crick, and we’re able to bear the pain of seeing a bear in the woods.

Enough chit-chat.  What’s it like to have a coffee or tea at Maté Factor?  It’s like joining an artist for a chat in the comfortable corner of his small, well-kept, hundred year old studio.  You feel special.  The conversation feels special.  You’re sure this is the start of a wonderful novel that you can’t wait to write.  You picture Hemingway at a favorite, aged Madrid hangout on a narrow cobblestone street, gently sipping an espresso, while he’s jotting notes with a stubby pencil in his well-worn Moleskin notebook.

 

Or maybe you’re not of an artistic bent and you’re thinking, “Hey, this is great coffee and we’ve got another hour before the ballgame starts.”  If so, stick with McDuck’s.

 

Maté Factor is a place of quiet leisure and reflection, a place you’d like to visit every day and if your friends can’t join you, you’d come anyway and bring a book…or write one.

Shepherd's Pie Sorta

 

Shepherd’s Pie Sorta

 

Anyone who enjoys English pub food knows the heavenly taste and aroma of Shepherd’s Pie.  Never been to England?  Don’t know Shepherd’s Pie from πr²?  Perhaps you need to extend your radius of travel, when travel to England is again possible.  Your first stop after getting off the plane, through passport control, customs, and out of Heathrow airport, should be a genuine English pub. 

 

If you’re not familiar with the delightful concept of Pubs and how they differ from American bars, be sure to search through my many blog articles.  Go to the bottom of the page and click for past articles.

 

But, getting back to the subject of pubs, don’t get me wrong, sobriety has its place, if practiced in moderation.  Same with counting calories.

 

In the second case, I can help you with a recipe that is heavy on vegetables and substitutes sweet potato puree for the usual mashed russet potatoes, which have become passé among the jet set.   I can hear you grumbling “Phooey! A plague on both your mansion and your put down of mashed potatoes!”

 

I forgive you.  Quite obviously, you are not amongst my three faithful readers who have long valued my culinary experiences, all of which are simple and easily practiced at home.  May I dare to call them Dreams Come True In The Privacy of Your Own Kitchen?

 

Ok, enough modesty. Let’s get on with this simple and simply scrumptious concoction that’s suitable for lunch or dinner. Jackets and ties optional.

 

Shepherd’s Pie Sorta

 

1 pound of ground beef, or minced beef as the English call it

1 midsized onion, peeled and diced

4 cups of mixed, frozen vegetables

4 cups of beef broth (If not beefy enough, add a cube of two or beef broth cubes)

2-3 cups sliced mushrooms

Big handful of fresh spinach

1 cup of red wine  (to make it more English, use a cup of dark beer)

1-2 halved and baked sweet potatoes (depending on size), scooped out of the skins and mashed.  Adding butter is optional.

 

Note:  If the dish is too soupy, use a thickener of butter and cornstarch or butter and rice flour, mashed into a paste.  Too thick?  Add a bit more beef broth.

Vegetarian?  Substitute vegetable broth for beef broth and crumbled vegetable protein for ground beef.

 

Puttin’ It Together

 

Add a bit of oil to a large frying pan (I used olive oil) and cook the ground beef, breaking it up a finely as possible.

 

Add the onion to the beef and cook until wilted.  Add the cup of wine and scrap the brown bits off the bottom of the pan.

Meanwhile, cook the mushrooms in another flying pan, with another bit of oil.  Why I cook them separately:  Mushrooms are mostly water and I like to get much of the water out before adding them to the mix.

 

Time to add the beef broth and frozen vegetables.  Simmer until the vegetables are tender and the broth is slightly reduced.  Then toss in the spinach and cook until wilted.

 

Add thickener and adjust to get the thickness you favor.

Serve in a shallow bowl, with a scoop of mashed sweet potatoes on the side.

 

Well done, mate!  Next round is on me!

Odds & Sods MK 2

ODDS & SODS Mk2, by Derek Robinson

 

ODDS & SODS MK2, as you might guess, is a follow-up on ODDS & SODS.  Strange title, and if you’re not English, even more odd you old sod.  Usually means a disreputable man, but sod is one of those broad terms that run the grammatical gamut through noun, adjective, and verb. Allow me to steer you in the general direction, with a hint. Not unusual to hear a bad guy in an English movie yell “Sod off!”  He’s not wishing anybody a Happy Birthday.

 

I’ve often written reviews of Derek Robinson’s works, which span everything from superb flying novels from World Wars I and II, espionage novels, and various books exploring the truths and falsehoods we know as history.  He and I have never met, but I feel as if we’re friends. Books will do that and I’ve read every one of his.  

 

(Go to the top of my blog and type his name.  That will lead you to all the titles I’ve reviewed, most of which are available on Amazon.)

 

His latest effort, ODDS & SODS MK 2 is short, but fascinating, with quick wit and twists and turns that take the reader behind the scenes of real events,  in prose, poetry, and history.  Need some teasers?

 

What’s the real meaning of the oft quoted lines from Shakespeare’s Richard II, Act 2, Scene 1?

 

This royal throne of Kings, this sceptered isle, … 

 

Or, how about the effectiveness of gliders in World War II and the much-celebrated use of paratroops?  What’s an easy way to tell photos of real dead people from the pretend corpses in cop movies?

 

You see, these are the types of questions that keep me up at night, and make me question damn near everything lodged in my agile brain.   Here’s something I recently found. It’s what Mark Twain said: It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so. 

 

But, is that so? Scholars at the Center for Mark Twin Studies at Elmira College (Elmira, NY) say they can find no substantive evidence that Mark Twain (Samuel Clemons) ever said it or wrote it!

 

See, that’s the kind of thing Derek Robinson examines.  But, Robinson’s palate is much larger than mine and more colorful.  He slaps new paint on old canvases of fiction, history, and folklore to bring to light things that just ain’t so! 

 

When I said ODDS & SODS MK2 is a short book, I meant it, but it’s 114 pages are fabulously interesting.  Every last one of them sparkles! 

 

For the past several years he and I have also corresponded in short chunks of emails.  And if you want this book or it’s predecessor, ODDS & SODS, you’ll have to write him, too.  Order both! Give yourself a treat and tickle your curiosity!  

 

delrobster@gmail.com

or

derekrobinson840@btinternet.com

 

You’re not just in for a treat, but a rollercoaster ride of history and clever writing.  And that IS so!

 

 

Jekyll Island Club Resort

 

Jekyll Island Club Resort

 

Just got back from an overnight trip to the Jekyll Island Club Resort.  It’s where one goes to feel a part of the upper part of the upper crust, in an overnight dream of wealth and power.

 

It’s also a microcosm of Georgia’s history and a goodly part of American history.  Really? My cautious readers may ask.  One little island of seven miles long by a mile and a half wide does all that?

 

Yes.  Georgia is one of the original thirteen colonies, as I’m sure you are aware.  General Oglethorpe was the first English Governor of Georgia and named the island (one of the four Golden Isles on the Georgia coast) after his friend, an English politician, Sir Joseph Jekyll, who also, by the way, provided Oglethorpe with £600 to develop the island.

 

We could talk forever about the Spanish and French and English and native American tribes, all fighting and compromising over this island.

 

But, let’s slam forward, but just a bit. In 1792, a Frenchman who fled from the French Revolution, Christophe DuBignon, purchased the island and started a cotton plantation.  Another leap in time.  DuBignon’s heir, sold the island to a group of New York industrialists for $125,000 (about $3.5 million today) and they established a hunting club. You’d recognize many of the names.  Morgan (JP Morgan), Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, and Pulitzer, just to name a few.  It was said that these and other members represented one sixth of the world’s wealth.  And today we think it’s something new for the few to hold most of the wealth.

 

This exclusive club, perhaps the most exclusive in the world at that time, set up a private island resort like no other and constantly added amenities.  The USGA built a wonderful golf course, Great Dunes, where new clubs (steel shaft) and balls (lighter) where first tested, and changed the face of the game.

 

Is it any wonder that after the financial crash of 1907 (when stock prices dropped about 50%!) the movers and shakers met here in 1910 to rough out the establishment of the Federal Reserve System that we have today.  Once again, history is repeated, namely in the Great Depression and more recently in the 1990s, when the tech bubble popped.

Members often came by yacht for visits, some of the ships were even too large to dock. Privately invited guests were permitted only a two-week stay in the privately owned “cottages.”  In this case, cottage meant a huge mansion, with names such as Sans Souci, Cherokee, and Crane whose rooms are now part of the hotel.  Rooms in both the main club and cottages run about $300 a night, more or less, and do not include meals or parking, or taxes.

This rich man’s bit of heaven lasted from 1886 until 1942, when owners were required to move due to the chance of German submarines in the coastal waters. By the end of the war, it was no longer economically viable to maintain it as a private resort.

 

The Jekyll Island Club Resort is now a part of the collection of Historic Hotels of America.

 

Ok, enough history.  Time to cut to the chase, skin the cat, ante up or fold. Is a visit worth it?  For us it was. The sheer beauty of the architecture, inside and out, the extravagant elegance of the Club and its accommodations, along with the magnificent grounds, has an unmatched charm for this part of the world.  Service is first class in every respect.

The famous hall of mirrors.

Rare 19th century Japanese Tsutsugaki-Zome difficult indigo art

There’s far more to see and do than hang out in the Club.  Bicycles are available for rent, with 3 hours of bike trails, lots of beautiful seashore for walking, cuisine that stretches from the elegant to the casual, gift shops galore and historical sites aplenty.

 

And then I found the small, cozy, dark wood paneled bar in the Club. Lucky for us, there were six stools, two of which were empty.

 

Sunday through Thursday, 3 p.m. to 10 p.m.

Friday and Saturday, 3 p.m. to 11 p.m.

 

There’s something about a small group in an elegant bar that pulls people together and brings out interesting conversation.  The three couples were from different parts of the country, with different backgrounds and different professions, and yet stories and humor and travel adventures sparkled brightly.

 

Bear in mind, all of us were retired, well dressed and showing our age.

 

“You’ve got a cute wife.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what she tells me.” 

 

“Covid about killed me.”

 

“How long did it last?”

 

“Oh, not me.  But covid damn near killed by business.”

 

“What business?”

 

“Travel agency.”

 

The conversation morphed into one of the most important subjects of the day, colleges and high schools and the balance between academics and athletics, plumbing the philosophical depths in avid discussion.  Of course that moved on to European travel and then on to one bright subject after another.

 

And so it went, until the weary barkeep passed out the bills and we slinked off in different directions to our pricy beds.

 

For me, it’s the people you meet that make the trip, whether it’s a cruise or a resort, or a night at a cozy bar.

 

But, yes, the Jekyll Island Club Resort, was a night of feeling like the rich and powerful.  Worth the money to feel that way for a while, especially in a gorgeous, historic setting that brings out turn of the 20^th century lavishness and shines new light on problems and a society that shares many problems and solutions that mirror our own.