MAKING ICE-CREAM.
After breakfast there came a little lull in the excitement. The edge had
been taken off of the enjoyment of torpedoes, by this time, and the
delights of fire-crackers palled.
To be sure, little Kenneth was still all agog. In his small brain this
day was hopelessly confused with April-Fool’s-Day, which was the latest
special occasion in his narrow experience. He ran around from one to
another, crying excitedly, “Look a-hind you!” and then shrieked in great
glee, “Apple-fool!” enjoying to the full the unfailing surprise of each
person, however often he tried it.
By ten o’clock, however, came the great excitement of the day, making
ice-cream in the back-kitchen. Will and Archie, and even
seventeen-year-old Donald, pounded the ice which Thomas had already put
there, in a big tub, while Marjorie measured the cream and milk and put
in the sugar.
It seemed to be part of the programme regularly to forget the flavouring
till the cream was in the can and the dasher adjusted. Then, at the last
moment, it would suddenly be remembered, and off must come the cover, to
the boys’ disgust, with imminent danger of a deposit of salt within,
while the flavouring was added. Then they would find that they could not
put back the dasher in its place without taking out the can. So out
would come the can, and the cream must be poured out, the dasher slipped
in place, all the ice and salt taken out of the freezer, in order to put
the can back, and the whole thing repacked. All this served to “vary the
monotony,” Donald remarked.
To-day, however, Marjorie, who was chief-cook, had the flavouring in her
mind from the beginning, and she gave the cream a liberal supply of
lemon extract.
“Will you stir this for a moment, please, Eunice,” she said, as Eunice
came into the pantry just then, where Marjorie stood. “I want to speak
to cook.”
Eunice gave it a stir, as Marjorie went out, and then bethought herself
of the flavouring.
“We won’t forget it this time,” she thought. “I know Marjorie has not
remembered it. She never does.” She surveyed the extract-bottles for a
moment.
“I believe bitter-almond ice-cream would be nice,” she thought. “I’ve
never tasted any, but it makes a nice flavour for frosting and cake. I
wonder how much it takes? I guess half a bottle, certainly, for all this
cream,” and in went the bitter-almond, for Eunice had not the vaguest
idea of the necessary quantity.
“Oh, Marjorie,” she called, “I’ve just put in—”
“Do come here, Eunice, I don’t think the boys have chopped this ice fine
enough, and they say it will do,” interrupted Marjorie. “Cricket, you go
and stir the cream.”
Eunice ran out, thinking to herself,—
“I won’t tell her, after all, and she’ll think she’s forgotten it, as
usual.”
Cricket took her turn at the spoon.
“There,” she thought, “the girls never said a word about the flavouring,
and I just s’pose they’ve gone and forgotten it, as usual. I’ll put it
in myself, and just as they think they’ve got to take the can out, I’ll
tell them. Let me see. We always have lemon or vanilla. Essence of
wintergreen. Wintergreen candy is lovely. I’ll just put in some
wintergreen,” and she took the bottle hastily, after turning for a
spoon.
“Oh! oh! it’s peppermint I’ve got,” she exclaimed, in dismay, as the
first spoonful went into the mixture. “Bah! I don’t like peppermint,
I’ll just put in an extra amount of wintergreen to cover it up. Cook
says she often mixes flavours.” And in went plenty of wintergreen. By
this time the whole pantry had a strong odour of essences, principally
peppermint.
“What a strong smell!” said Marjorie, coming back. “What’s the
peppermint bottle doing down here with the cork out?” But Cricket
vanished, and Marjorie, concluding that the cook had come in and used
it, corked it up, and put it back.
“How horribly strong that peppermint is,” she said, as she stirred her
cream. “That bottle, just open for a moment, has scented everything, or
perhaps some of it was spilled.”
Archie appeared now to carry out the cream to pour in the can.
“Whew! peppermint!” he whistled.
“Yes; cook has been using some here, and left the bottle uncorked.
Awful, isn’t it?”
“Thing flavoured this time?”
“Yes, Master Archie, it is. I flavoured it myself, and it’s all right.”
“Good girl. I shall be glad to have some properly flavoured cream of our
manufacture for once. Last year, seems to me, we didn’t get any in.”
The freezing of the cream went rapidly forward now. The three girls made
no remarks about the flavouring, each thinking to surprise the others by
the fact the flavouring had not been forgotten, after all.
Taking the can out, when the cream was frozen, removing the dasher, and
the accompanying tastings, were all important features of the operation.
To-day, however, as the critical moment drew near, mamma came out, and
said there were two wandering minstrels in Highland dress and with
Scottish bag-pipes, in front of the house. Of course they all wanted to
go and see them, so they gave the cream into cook’s charge and all
rushed off. When they returned half an hour later, they found, much to
their disappointment, that the ice-cream was all frozen and packed in
the moulds, to stand till the afternoon.
Making ice-cream had been such a long process that, by the time
everything was put away, a point mamma always insisted on, it was time
to dress for dinner.
The afternoon was rather uninteresting. Some one says that very early
risers are apt to be conceited all the morning and stupid all the
afternoon, and so the children found it. Year after year they had the
same experience, but the twelve months between destroyed the
recollection of everything but the excitement of early morning.
By half-past four, however, they began to brighten up again, for
ice-cream time approached.
This was the children’s day, and the rule was for them to wait on
themselves, so for some time they were busy bringing out plates and
spoons and doylies, and arranging cakes and crackers on the table on the
piazza, where the feast was always served. Cook took the ice-cream out
of the moulds for them, and put it on the ice-cream platter, and when
the grown-up people were all assembled and the party was ready, Maggie,
smiling broadly, appeared with it. The children all sat around with eyes
expectant and mouths watering, for this was their especial and
particular feast, and entirely unlike the ice-cream that was served
every Sunday for dessert.
The cream had certainly been beautifully frozen, and looked very
tempting on this hot afternoon. Marjorie officiated at the platter, and
distributed the dainty with a liberal hand.
Mamma tasted her dish, and set it down suddenly. Auntie, after one
trial, laid down her spoon, and coughed behind her hand as she caught
mamma’s eye. Two or three other guests present toyed with their spoons.
“This is for you, papa,” Marjorie said then, “and it’s a particularly
big dish, because you are so fond of it. There! isn’t that nice?”
“What under the canopy!” hastily exclaimed the doctor, eyeing his dish
in great surprise, after his first mouthful.
“What is it? isn’t it good?” inquired Cricket, anxiously, with a sudden
pang, as she remembered the peppermint.
“Good? it’s—it’s delicious. Only, why didn’t you flavour it?”
“Flavour it?” cried Marjorie and Eunice and Cricket, in a breath, “I
did!” Then each looked at the other.
“I put plenty of lemon in,” said Marjorie.
“I thought bitter-almond might be good,” began Eunice, looking
bewildered.
“I thought Marjorie had forgotten,” broke in Cricket, rapidly, “so I
thought I’d s’prise her, and I meant to put in some wintergreen, ’cause
wintergreen candy is very good, ’n’ I got in the peppermint, by mistake,
so I put in plenty of wintergreen afterwards, to cover it up.” She
confessed this all in a breath, looking very unhappy.
There was a shout.
“There’s no doubt, then, it is thoroughly flavoured; it must have been
my taste,” said the doctor, dryly. “I’m almost sorry I have been told,
for there is such a charm about the unknown. Do you remember what cook
said about her pumpkin pie, when your mother asked her receipt? ‘Shure,
there’s milk, an’ there’s eggs an’ there’s some punkin, but after all,
it’s principally ingrejiencies.’ Your ice-cream is really delicious, but
if I were asked my candid opinion I should say it was principally
ingrejiences.”
“May Zaidee and I have it all, then, mamma,” asked Helen, eagerly, “if
no one else wants it?” The twins had been eating up mamma’s and auntie’s
cream with great relish. “We think it’s good.”
“Let them have all they want,” the doctor answered, laughing. “I’m sure
the amount of peppermint and wintergreen will counteract any possible
ill effect of so much cold.”
The older children were much disappointed, but bore it very well. The
combination of lemon extract and bitter-almond might have been endured,
but Cricket’s generous addition was altogether too much.
Archie and Will put their heads together for a few minutes, and then
Archie mounted a hassock and asked for attention.
“Now, mamma,” interrupted Eunice, “I know he is going to say something
horrid. Make him stop.”
“It isn’t horrid, ma’am, it’s poetic genius, that’s all.”
“Who flavoured up our nice ice-cream,
With lemon-essence by the ream?
Marjorie.”
“There! I knew he would,” said Eunice, resignedly.
Will took up the strain:
“And who next bitter almonds sought,
And poured in extract by the quart?
Eunice.”
“Be still, you wretch!” cried Eunice, attacking him in the rear with a
cushion.
“Come on, if you want to fight,” said Will. “It’s Archie’s turn, now.”
“Who added essence without stint,
The wintergreen and peppermint?
Our Cricket, oh!”
And both boys gave vent to a prolonged howl of anguish.
“Oh, do go on!” cried Cricket, clapping her hands. “It’s splendid.”
Both boys continued in concert:
“Who feasted on this luscious mess,
And groans each struggled to suppress?
All of us!”
Fortunately just here the supper-bell rang, and they all trooped in.