Peach Custard Ice Cream

Golden juice dribbled down Mom’s hands and clung to her forearms. She peeled and diced peaches, paring knife circling, no need for a cutting board.

The screen door from the garage to the kitchen clattered shut behind Dad and me. We hauled in brown paper sacks filled with fruit from the two peach trees that scraggled up from the Texas bayou clay of our front yard.

I stuck my nose into my sack and breathed in the earthy, floral scent.

Eggs, milk, sugar, vanilla, and almond extract lined the countertop next to the stove.

Standing tiptoe, I emptied my peaches into a colander and clawed at a mosquito bite on my leg.

The Whiz-Bang, my baby sister, toddled in.

I dodged Mom’s knife to snag a few gold lumps for myself and one for her.

Soft and sweet-tart, they melted sunshine-warm on my tongue. Whiz-Bang slurped her piece and extended chubby hands for more.

Dad looked over Mom’s shoulder and critiqued her cutting method. She raised one eyebrow as if to remind him who held the knife. Then she popped a bite of dripping fruit into his mouth and kissed him.

I followed Dad back out the screen door, quick to shut it, caging Whiz-Bang in the kitchen. She hollered, sticky pink fingers splayed against the gray mesh, peach juice drooling down her chin. Sweat gathered at her temples, drawing her black hair into ringlets against cheeks rosy from the heat. I shrugged, opened the door, and hoisted her onto my hipbone.

“Shut the door,” Dad said. “The air conditioner’s running.”

Then he pulled the attic ladder from the ceiling, wood creaking and moaning. The best sound in the world. In winter, it meant Christmas decorations coming down. In summer, July Fourth and the ice cream freezer.

My dad disappeared into the dark rectangle at the top of the ladder. In a few minutes his work boots found the rungs and he thudded down, ragged cardboard box in hand.

The wood-slatted, bucket-style electric ice cream machine.

“We’re gonna need more ice and salt.” He thrust the spring-loaded ladder up, and it vanished into the ceiling.

“And more vanilla.” Mom poked her head out the door.

Dad slid into his pickup, backed down the driveway, and sped to town.

In the kitchen, my mom whisked sugar and milk over a double boiler, stopping to wipe her forehead with the back of her wrist.

The ceiling fan swirled the aroma of fresh peach, sugared milk, and warm almond through the kitchen. I grabbed a few more bites before depositing Whiz-Bang on a quilt in the den.

On the TV, Jane Pauley interviewed Mrs. Reagan at the White House.

I switched it off and put on a record. My sister took her Care Bear in a chokehold and swayed to the music.

Pulling off my knee-socks and Keds, I headed for the door. My bike needed a good wash before cousins arrived.

Dad returned just I wiped the last droplets of water from the rainbow banana seat.

“Better roll that hose up.” He strode into the garage and dropped two bags of ice into the deep freeze next to the washing machine.

I rinsed black mud from my feet then slurped from the hose as sweat trickled down my forehead and stung my eyes. Were any peaches left in the kitchen?

I scooted in just as Mom lifted a custard-coated spoon from the double boiler.

She cupped a hand under the spoon and held it to my lips. “Taste?”

Molten custard slid down my throat so sweet and silky-rich, I didn’t mind how hot it was.

She set the mixture aside to cool and pointed to a paper sack. “Those peaches are still green. Take them out to the garage to ripen.”

I wadded the sack shut and deposited the hard fruit on Dad’s tool bench. Then I sat down by the ice cream machine, bare legs against the cool concrete floor.

Mom brought out the metal canister of liquid ice cream and lowered it into the wooden bucket.

“Grab a bag of ice, Heather.” Dad nodded to the chest freezer.

Shimmying in front of our blue Diesel Oldsmobile, I lifted the freezer lid and leaned over the edge. The subzero blast soothed the bug bites on my arms. I tugged at the ice bag, teetering deeper into the freezer as I lost balance. Dad swiped me up by my belt loop and hoisted out the ice bag.

An avalanche crashed against wood and metal as he shook the bag into the bucket. I flipped the switch. The motor cranked as ice and rock salt tumbled together.

A horn sounded in the driveway, and my cousins bounded out of their station wagon before my uncle cut the engine.

We kids mounted bicycles and tore down the street, pigtails flying in the breeze of our two-wheeled speed.

When we returned, grandparents and aunts and uncles had settled into aluminum lawn chairs in the shade of our backyard oaks. A new baby cousin napped on her mama’s shoulder.

Black smoke rose from Dad’s charcoal grill. PawPaw balanced Whiz-Bang on his shoulders and sang a silly song. Memaw held a frosty Diet Coke can to her forehead.

My cousins and I batted away flies and chomped down burgers. When the grown-ups’ stories got boring, we headed for the swing set. Cicadas sang to the rhythm of our pumping legs, and we played until the sun rested in the lower branches of the trees.

Early twilight crackled and popped with a few test fireworks. My cousins looked toward the still-pale sky.

But I spotted Dad heading to the garage, so I jumped off my swing and followed. “Ice cream ready?”

“Let’s go see.” His eyes smiled.

Mom met me at the door with an armful of spoons and foam bowls. “Take these out back.”

Dad unplugged the ice cream freezer and lifted the paddle, thick with blush pink sweetness. I stuck in my finger and swiped a lick.

Frosty custard slipped past my lips. Almond and vanilla tickled my nose. A glob of frozen peach melted to gooey softness on my tongue.

Dad caught my eye. Caught me with my finger in my mouth.

Uh-oh.

A grin lifted the corner of his mouth. He ran his finger along the paddle and stole a lick too. The glint in his eye said, Don’t tell your mother. Then we shared another taste.

It’s been years since I’ve had Mom’s homemade ice cream recipe. Those two scraggly peach trees are long gone, and my parents sold that house two decades ago.

When I remember the creamy custard bursting with bright chunks of fruit, I see my dad’s grin, my sister’s pink baby cheeks, my mom sharing the first taste straight from the stove. I hear family laughing in the backyard, see PawPaw bouncing the little ones in his arms, feel the whoosh of my bike through a muggy afternoon.

Maybe the best thing about homemade ice cream isn’t the recipe or even picking the peaches yourself.

Maybe the best thing is who shares it with you.