Yearn to churn

July Fourth at my grandparents' house was just about the most exciting day of the year. We'd play to exhaustion in the steamy South Carolina heat, then mid-afternoon my grandfather and uncle would load us into the pickup truck for a drive into the country to get freshly ground beef. It had never been frozen or seen the inside of a grocery store. Grilled and topped with Mama's homemade pickle relish, to this day it remains the best meat I ever tasted.

Burgers done, my uncle would make ice cream. He'd put the canister—filled with Mama's divine peach recipe—in the barrel then carefully surround it with layers of crushed ice, topped with rock salt, topped with more ice and more salt. One cousin would sit atop the churn while another turned the crank. As the ice cream got thicker the crank got harder to turn and my uncle would take over.

When he pronounced it done, he'd remove the dasher, replace the top and cover the whole thing with more ice, newspaper and a brick to weight it down. Now it had to "set" for what to us seemed like an eternity, so the adults would usually entertain us with by firing Roman candles and bottle rockets during the wait. Finally, as the stars came out along with the mosquitoes, we'd celebrate Independence Day with a big slice of chocolate pound cake topped with homemade peach ice cream.

My crankin' arm not being what it used to be, a while back I gave in and purchased an electric ice cream churn. I know we haven't used it in five years. This weekend I just might change that.