Ice Cream Machine

Raspberry ice cream is one of life’s most unabashed luxuries. I prefer to strain out the seeds, which interfere with the sublime smoothness and pleasure of this ice cream. To do this, purée the raspberries in a food processor, then press them through a mesh strainer with a flexible rubber spatula, or use a food mill. This recipe requires 1 1/2 cups (375 ml) of purée, so you’ll need to begin with about 6 cups (750 g) of fresh or frozen raspberries.

As a smart shopper, I like to outwit unsuspecting produce clerks who don’t know any better and mark down passion fruits that are ugly and deeply wrinkled, which actually indicates that they’re perfectly ripe and ready to use. I buy any and all, whether I need them right away or not, since the pulp freezes beautifully. You can find good-quality frozen passion fruit pulp in Latin markets as well (or see Resources, page 237). I like to add a drop or two of pure orange oil to augment the passion fruit flavor, but if unavailable, you can substitute a few swipes of freshly grated orange zest if you wish. To extract the pulp, cut each passion fruit in half at the equator and scoop the pulp and seeds into a nonreactive strainer set over a bowl. Use a flexible rubber spatula to press and extract as much as the precious pulp as possible, until the seeds look rather dry. You can freeze the fragrant pulp or use it right away. But save a few of the seeds to add back to the ice cream just after it’s churned.

This recipe comes from Barbara Tropp, the woman who introduced many Americans to the wonders of Chinese cooking. But she was also one of those people who was just absolutely lovely to be around in every respect. She was deservedly popular in the food community and left many great recipes behind as her legacy, including this famous lemon ice cream. It was passed on to me by Susan Loomis, a dear friend we both had in common. I made it, ate one spoonful, and immediately found another reason to love, and miss, Barbara. It’s superbly lemony and clean…and as zesty as Barbara was herself.

The Belgians have their own version of gingersnaps, called speculoos (SPEC-oulooze). They’re meant to be nibbled alongside the copious amounts of beer that Belgians drink, which was one of the many lessons I learned when I went to chocolate school there, at Callebaut College. The Belgians like their beer so much that the outdoor beer gardens are busy all year long, even during the freezing cold winters. You have to brush the snow off your table to put down your glass! The good news is that you don’t have to worry about your beer getting warm. Back home, I found that speculoos go equally well when crumbled and folded into lemon ice cream, which can be consumed any time of the year.

My well-meaning hostess, knowing that I had come to Italy to sample chocolate and gelato, planned a special dinner in my honor. As we drove up the mountain to the restaurant, she turned to me and said, “We’ve arranged a special dinner just for you. Each and every course is going to have chocolate in it!” Gulp. Dinner was, um, interesting, and chocolate was indeed incorporated into each and every course—except for dessert! However, the chef presented us with a selection of ice creams, including one flavored with a fruity, locally pressed olive oil. Olive oil ice cream pairs remarkably well with summer fruits such as strawberries and apricots, and if you use a fruity Spanish Arbequina olive oil, you’ll find this ice cream is sublime drizzled with Lean Chocolate Sauce (page 165) too. Be sure to try it flecked with a few grains of coarse sea salt over the top.

After a big meal, when I feel like I can’t eat another bite, I like a dessert that’s been infused with an intriguing flavor, like Szechwan pepper, to coax my taste buds back to life. This ice cream starts off comfortably, with the familiar flavor of orange, and then comes alive with a kick from the Szechwan peppercorns.

When friends found out I was writing a book on ice cream, many felt compelled to “help out” by passing along really odd flavor combinations they’d either seen or heard of. But somehow, I just couldn’t seem to get enthusiastic about combinations like Clam-Raisin or Duck Fat Swirl. However, when Judy Witts raved about this combination, which she’d enjoyed at her local gelateria in Florence, it piqued my interest. After a bit of trial and error, I discovered that the key to preserving the character of pecorino is to very finely dice the cheese rather than grating it. The little bites of salty cheese are the perfect counterpoint to the fruity, pear-flavored custard.

Surprisingly, a lot of people have never seen a fresh fig. When they do, they invariably ask, “What is that?” Indeed, a majority of the fig harvest gets dried and made into the familiar bar cookies. But fresh figs have a sweet succulence that is unmatched by their dried counterparts. A fig is ripe when the sides crack and split and a dewy drop of juice starts to ooze from the tiny hole in the bottom. Once picked, figs don’t ripen any more, so buy only figs that are dead-ripe. For best results, use Black Mission figs, which will give the ice cream a lovely deep-violet color.

This ice cream combines the best of two worlds: deeply caramelized sugar and sweet, juicy pears. Use the ripest, most flavorful pears you can find, since you want the flavor of the pears to stand up to the slightly burnt taste of the caramel. I recommend Comice or Bartlett pears, which have a heady, roselike aroma when ripe. Don’t be alarmed if the sugar hardens and crackles when you add the pears. Keep cooking, and the pears will dissolve the caramelized sugar nicely.

One winter I visited my friend Kate Hill, who lives in Gascony, a region famous for its tasty prunes, les pruneaux d’Agen. As a means of prying me away from the cozy kitchen hearth, where I could happily eat cassoulet and drink Armagnac all day by the fire, we decided to do something cultural and visit the local prune museum. It was all rather exciting: an entire museum full of educational displays on the history of prunes, including informative dioramas showing the various phases of prune production. We ended our visit with a thrilling film explaining prune cultivation and harvesting, which was a real nail-biter. On our way out, near the prune-filled gift shop (there was a comic book about a prune-fueled superhero…I’m not kidding), was a shrine with a jar holding what they claimed was the world’s oldest prune, dating back to the mid-1800s. For this recipe, you should use prunes that are wrinkled but not necessarily that old, and be alert that it’s become au courant to call them dried plums in America.

If you’re lucky enough to live in an area where fresh apricots are bountiful in the summer, be sure to take advantage of their brief season by churning up a batch of this ice cream. Don’t be put off by apricots that are übersoft, as plump and fragile as an overfilled water balloon, seemingly ready to burst at the slightest touch. Those are invariably the best-tasting fruits.

For many years, I was delighted to work with Lindsey Shere, the founding pastry chef at Chez Panisse. She was constantly surprising us with amazing fruits and berries from neighbors’ backyards and nearby farms. Without fail, Lindsey would come in one weekend each summer carrying a big plastic Tupperware container, which, due to its distinctive rounded shape, left no question that it was precisely designed to hold a canned ham. But instead of a ham, inside would be a jumble of tiny, tender, smushed wild plums picked by her mother. Eaten raw, they were puckery-tart, but once stewed, they made an incredibly flavorful plum ice cream. Each year I would wait patiently for that one late-summer weekend when Lindsey would walk though the door lugging her now-infamous canned ham container. Although wild plums may be hard to come by, you can use whatever plums are available with equal success.

Bill Fujimoto, the produce expert at Monterey Market in Berkeley, grew up in Japan. He once told me about the produce market where his father worked, which featured a wall covered with tarantulas, each individually nailed in place. In days past, native islanders would hoist bunches of bananas onto ships heading landward, and the bananas would sometimes include a little something extra from the jungle lurking beneath the stem. Sometimes people would bring home bananas only to discover an unwelcome houseguest the next day, enjoying a morning stroll across the kitchen counter. In spite of their risky reputation, bananas have become the most popular, and least intimidating, fruit in America. I’ve eaten more than my fair share and have yet to see any hazardous signs of life. (But that doesn’t mean I don’t take a peek every now and then.) Roasting bananas in butter and brown sugar gives them a deep, rich butterscotch flavor, which enhances their abundant natural sweetness.

What do you say when a nice Jewish boy gives up a promising career as a lawyer to become a self-appointed “amateur gourmet”? (“Oy!” his mom probably said.) When the audacious amateur himself, Adam Roberts, used my recipe for Strawberry Frozen Yogurt (page 91) as inspiration for churning up a batch of Sour Cherry Frozen Yogurt, he posted the results on his web site, www.amateurgourmet.com. It was an idea too delicious not to include in this book. However, when pressed for minor details like, say, a recipe or exact quantities, Adam played the amateur card and feigned ignorance, forcing a certain professional to do his duty. This recipe calls for sour cherries, which are different from their sweeter counterparts and sometimes require a bit of foraging to find (Adam found his at Manhattan’s Greenmarket). Their tiny little pits can easily be slipped out by squeezing the cherries with your fingers or with the help of a cherry pitter.

I love, love, love dried apricots. They’re one of my favorite foods on earth, as long as they’re the ones from California. People are often tempted by Turkish and Chinese dried apricots, since they’re usually more colorful and far more plump (and cheaper), but I find them terribly sweet, and ice cream made with them lacks the delicious flavor and intensity of dried apricots. The combination of pistachio nuts and apricots is particularly good. Don’t toast the pistachio nuts or they’ll lose their lovely green hue. Make sure the pistachio nuts you’re using are fresh and crisp.

Many apartment buildings in Paris, including mine, have a gardienne. Although their official duties are accepting deliveries and overseeing maintenance, they’re equally famous for being a steady (and remarkably reliable) source of gossip about your neighbors. My gardienne is Madame André, who has young children, so she was always quite happy to accept ice cream while I churned out recipes for this book. Of all the ice creams I gave her, this was her absolute favorite, and she went into Gallic raptures whenever she saw me for days and days afterward. I should probably recommend her for a job as my publicist too, since shortly thereafter I got a reputation in the building as being L’Américain qui fait des glaces, toujours! (the American who makes ice cream, all the time!). If you’re a rice pudding lover, this is the ice cream for you. And be sure to spread the word.

Fortunately, I once worked with pastry chef Mary Canales. Unfortunately, our time together lasted merely a few hours. I was ending my tenure at Chez Panisse, and she was just beginning hers. But I liked her instantly, and we kept in touch. Years later, she decided to open an ice cream shop, Ici, in Berkeley, and I was thrilled when her ice creams became legendary in the Bay Area. Here’s the most popular flavor from her vast repertoire. Panforte is a Italian cake, a Tuscan specialty that’s so dense and delicious that it’s practically a confection. And like the best panforte, Mary’s ice cream has the perfect balance of spices, toasted almonds, and candied orange peel.

This curious combination of flavors will surprise you, as it did the unsuspecting friends I invited over to taste test it. One was so enamored of it that she kept digging her spoon in until the container was scraped clean! I like to serve this with warm oven-baked pears. Not only do they taste very good together, but the combination does double duty as the cheese course and the dessert. A few helpful tips: You can replace the Roquefort with a favorite blue cheese, with excellent results. Also, if your honey is very strong, you may wish to use the smaller amount indicated. And be a bit careful when making the custard; because it has no sugar, it will cook quickly.

The Marché d’Aligre is the liveliest market in Paris. In the center, there’s a marvelous épicerie, with bins brimming with things familiar and unusual: various grains and spices, plump dried fruits, organic honey, bars of chocolate, and artisan candies from all over France. It’s my one-stop shop for anything délicieux! When I stopped by to get some lavender flowers, José Ferré, the proprietor, shooed me away from the basket in his window and stepped into the back room. A minute later he returned dragging an enormous sack of dark purple lavender flowers that had just arrived from Provence. He gestured toward the bag, so I stuck my head in and inhaled deeply. The perfumed bouquet of the freshly harvested lavender flowers was ethereal. Of course, those lavender flowers made amazing ice cream. Try to find the most fragrant lavender flowers you can, wherever you live, and be sure to use lavender flowers that are intended for consumption.

I’ve spent many a summer night enjoying an ice cream cone, flanked by Mexican and Filipino families, at Mitchell’s Ice Cream in San Francisco’s Mission District. This ice cream is inspired by ube, the sweet potato ice cream they serve up in addition to all the other exotic flavors they offer. Mitchell’s is so popular that the place is just as packed when the inevitable summer fog rolls in and chills things down as it is when the sun is shining. There’s always a line. But don’t think for a minute that the flavor of this ice cream is too adventurous. Imagine a nice slab of spiced pumpkin pie; this ice cream delivers that classic flavor in one neat scoop of ice cream. The best sweet potatoes to use are a vivid, electric orange. I try to find the brightest orange ones when shopping. Don’t tell, but sometimes I scrape a bit of the skin off one, just to check.