An Ode to the Days of Green Ice Cream
Every summer, my grandmother would make homemade ice cream with her electric ice cream maker, and it made an awfully loud growling sound (which seemed to last a lifetime). Despite its racket, we’d sit around the contraption with childlike excitement. My brother and I would roll our eyes as my dad would tell us the same story he always did — his misadventures of hand churning ice cream when he was a kid. Apparently, it was torturous.