Frozen Dessert

One day while wasting the afternoon flipping through the television channels (what did we do before the remote control?), I stopped when I came across a not-very-well-choreographed procession of statuesque, exotically beautiful women parading across a stage. After a few minutes of riveted attention, I realized that I’d happened upon the Miss Martinique pageant. Once the glamorous gals had strutted their stuff wearing barely-there bikinis, teetering around precariously on steep high heels (it seemed the smaller the swimsuit, the higher the heels), the contest concluded with the host posing the all important question about why the pageant was so vital for promoting world peace and understanding. One of the contestants flashed her big, bright smile, looked right into the camera, and responded, “Because beauty is the key to communication.” With a thought-provoking answer like that, awarding the crown to anyone else would have been a crime. And sure enough, she won. But maybe she got mixed up and was talking about mangoes, the other beauties of the tropics. Their vibrant red exterior and succulent orange pulp do indeed communicate beauty and good taste that are not just skin deep.

Few folks are as opinionated about all things apple as Frank Browning, whom I’ve dubbed the Apple Autocrat. Frank grew up on an apple farm in Kentucky, which nurtured his headstrong, southern-style convictions regarding apples. He offered this recipe from An Apple Harvest, which he cowrote with Sharon Silva, but absolutely insisted that I make it only in the fall, when good-tasting, red-skinned apples are in abundance. So wait I did. Okay… I didn’t wait. But please don’t tell Frank. I made this during the spring using Jonagold apples, which worked great. And although Frank insisted I use Gewürztraminer, I made it with a dry Riesling instead (blame my rebellious Yankee spirit). So feel free to use any tasty, red-skinned apple, but don’t use bland Red Delicious ones, or you might get yourself a Kentucky-style comeuppance.

If you’re lucky enough to snag a reservation at Le Grand Véfour, the restaurant that presides over the splendid Palais Royal in Paris, you’ll be treated to a culinary tour de force. In this jewel box of a restaurant, my advice is to sit back and let chef Guy Martin and his staff pamper you like royalty, which they have elevated to an art. When it comes time for dessert, you scan the menu, but… “Can that be right?” you think to yourself, trying to recall snippets of your high school French. Indeed, chef Martin is fond of using vegetables in unexpected ways, often in desserts. But if you’ve ever enjoyed a wedge of carrot cake, you’ll know that it’s not so strange. This ice cream is inspired by a dessert I had at his restaurant: a small, crispy cone filled with bright green ice cream that had the dewy taste of tiny spring peas. At home, in addition to serving it for dessert, I’ve found that it makes a lovely garnish to a bowl of chilled summer soup.

Black pepper ice cream tastes spicy and lively, as you probably can imagine. I like it as a contrast to sweet summer berries, or pears roasted with a swirl of dark honey in autumn. If you don’t have a mortar and pestle, crack the peppercorns in a heavy-duty plastic bag with a hammer.

After an exotic Indian or Moroccan feast, sprinkle this ice cream (and your guests) with a few drops of rosewater and top it all off (the ice cream, not your guests) with a few toasted pine nuts. For a stunning presentation, serve it on a platter with thinly sliced oranges dusted with cinnamon and scattered with candied French Almonds (page 189).

This ice cream is very popular at a wine bar I frequent, where it’s served floating in a fruit soup surrounded by fresh berries. The contrast between the parsley-flecked ice cream and the rosy red berries floating in pink syrup is almost too lovely to eat. But after a few glasses of wine, inhibitions are lost and you’re more susceptible to sly attempts of culinary persuasion. Believe me, the combination sounds perfectly reasonable after a couple of glasses of Chablis. I use only flat-leaf parsley, which has a subtle hint of anise flavor. It first gets blanched and then shocked in ice water to preserve its brilliant green color. Note that this recipe makes only about a pint of ice cream, perfect for a small get-together. Double the amounts if you wish.

Standing in front of an immense, intricately carved wooden door in Fez, Morocco, my guide handed me a big bunch of fresh mint, shoving it firmly under my nose and telling me not to move it from there or I’d be sorry. Sure enough, when the gate swung open and we entered a tannery I kept my face deeply buried in the mint, as advised, and was happy for the good advice. Afterward I didn’t want to part with it since I love the aroma of fresh mint so much. I use mint for much more than an air freshener. It makes a wonderfully invigorating ice cream. I’ve planted mint in my garden against the warnings of friends, who say it’ll take over before I know it, but I’ve never had a problem using it all. And they’ve never had a problem eating the ice cream I make from it either.

Italians will often serve a Torta di Verdura for dessert, a cross between a cake and a tart packed with leafy greens. The first time I tried it I was unsure if I’d like it, but I found it unusually delicious and devoured the slice offered. Italian basil, which has a slight aniselike scent, provides the base for this herbaceous ice cream. This is wonderful to make in the summer when large bunches of basil are abundantly available at the market.

I’ll admit that my favorite selection from the shiny white Good Humor jalopy that cruised our neighborhood was simply called Toasted Coconut: vanilla ice cream on a stick, coated with lots of sugary-sweet coconut. On the last fateful day that I’d ever see the Good Humor man, the bully next door decided to spray him with water from a hose as he slowly circled our block. He beat a hasty retreat and never came back. Being blackballed by the Good Humor man made that the worst summer of my life. I don’t know what happened to the neighborhood bully, but now that I’m an adult I can have Toasted Coconut Ice Cream whenever I want. And I do. This ice cream is pictured marbled with Mango Sorbet (page 108).

This frozen yogurt is a snap to put together, especially welcome in the summer which is when you may want to limit your time in a warm kitchen. But don’t let its ease of preparation fool you; this vibrantly colored frozen yogurt provides the biggest blast of strawberry flavor imaginable.

Brilliant pink fresh strawberry ice cream is a classic flavor and, along with chocolate and vanilla, is an American favorite. I’m a big fan of any kind of berries served with tangy sour cream, but I think strawberries are the most delicious, especially when frozen into a soft, rosy red scoop of ice cream. Macerating the strawberries beforehand magically transforms even so-so berries into fruits that are brilliantly red. Try to eat this ice cream soon after it’s been churned.

This is the first ice cream that springs to mind when people recall hand-cranked, old-fashioned fruit ice creams from their past. More than any other homemade ice cream, this is perhaps the most beloved of all flavors and is indeed best when spooned right out of the machine, just moments after it’s been churned. An easy way to peel peaches is to cut an X at the bottom and then lower them in a pot of boiling water for about 20 seconds. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the peaches to a colander and shock them with cold water, then let them cool. Afterward, you’ll find their fuzzy peels just slip right off.

I’m a firm believer in being very nice to the people who feed me, which comes from working in restaurants and seeing what can happen to people who aren’t. I have a particular soft spot for the young folks at my local fish market, who wake early each morning to unpack, bone, and clean icy cold fish all day long. Since their freezer has a much larger capacity than mine, and their capacity for eating ice cream follows suit, I got into the habit of bringing them lots of ice creams and sorbets. Each time I’d bring them another flavor, they’d drop whatever work they were doing, rip off the lid, and dig right in. They liked this Raspberry Swirl Ice Cream the most, and it earned me VIP status instantly. Since that day, I’ve gotten the quickest and most helpful service of anyone who shops at that fish store. This perplexes the other shoppers, who have no idea of the power of homemade ice cream. For best results, layer the just-churned ice cream with the raspberry swirl and avoid stirring it to preserve the colorful contrast between the frozen vanilla custard and the gorgeous swirl of raspberries.

Unlike some of the other frozen yogurts in this book, I only make this with plain, unstrained yogurt. Since the peach purée is so velvety thick, this frozen yogurt has a lovely consistency when frozen.

When I wrote my first book on desserts, I told the story of the blueberry bush my father planted when I was growing up, which was an early lesson in disappointment (there were many more to come, but that was the first). As soon as the berries would ripen, the wily and evil blackbirds would come and snag any and all berries before I got to taste even one. When I returned home about a year ago, my sister had just sold the house and was moving away, and I noticed that the lonely berry bush was still there. And still devoid of berries. Although I gave up hope a long time ago, I considered warning the family moving in not to get their hopes up for any ripe blueberries. But I decided to let them find out on their own. They’ll learn the same lesson I did, and end up buying blueberries at the store, where the blackbirds can’t get them. Hopefully they’ll spare themselves the disappointment of a life as unfulfilled as mine, devoid of homegrown blueberries.

I had a sheltered life growing up in staid New England and never tasted an avocado until I was a teenager and took my first trip to California. There I was served a salad loaded with chunks of avocado, squishy, pale, and icky green. I tried to spear the offending slices to get them off my plate, but they resisted my persistent jabs and kept eluding my grasp. Now I realize that those luscious tidbits were trying to tell me something, and I regret the loss of so many avocados that I could have loved. If you’re hesitant to try avocado ice cream, let my foolhardy prejudice be a lesson to you. The best avocados are the pebbly-skinned Hass variety. When ripe and ready, the flesh should give just a little when pressed. And be sure to try the Avocado Licuado con Leche in the Perfect Pairing at the end of the recipe. It is unbelievably delicious.

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.