It all began with the Ice Cream.
I mean, many a fantastic adventure has begun this way– a first date for ice cream turns into a relationship, a craving for ice cream leads to finding a new favorite bookstore, or maybe even a heartbreak ends with an introduction to my good friends, Ben and Jerry.
Ice cream is kind of like the unspoken language that all of our hearts grow up speaking. It has the ability to soothe, heal, cool, and calm. It is the treat you crave during a diet. It is the only thing you can think about on a smoldering summer evening. It is the most requested last food on death row. It is the cool, crave-able stuff of diet busting dreams.
It also has the ability to drive you nuts. In this case, I mean that literally.
Have you ever heard of Pistachio Paste? Neither had I. But last week I decided to make Pistachio Ice Cream Sandwiches out of French Macarons. Simple, right? No. I also wanted to make my own ice cream. I didn’t want to be one of the sheep standing in line at Walmart clutching my container of pre-made Breyer’s in shame. I wanted to create this ice cream, this delectation of delight, with my OWN BARE HANDS. Of course, I also wanted to rise up rested, with my makeup already on, my hair perfectly curled, singing like Cinderella as the forest creatures helped me get dressed. But as they say . . . ahem. “This is the best we got, girl.”
Actually, my freezer is no snob to Breyer’s. But in this case my kids have been home on quarantine house arrest for months. They beg me daily, hourly, moment to MOMENT for something to do. So I said, “Of course beloved children. Your always organized mother is going to whip out the ingredients to make ice cream, and we are going to sing the alphabet song while we make it together, perfectly the first time, and take instagram worthy photos of our perfect creations!”
Ahem. I seem to remember it was more like kids pulling sleepy, bags under her eyes mom from the couch where she was nursing her morning coffee like a precious jewel, crooning over it like it was a newborn, and pulling her to the kitchen begging for something to do. Mom cleverly suggests dishes, cleaning, housework. Kids veto all ideas. Mom argues that all of these suggestions are “something to do.” She is outvoted. She argues that kid votes count as half an adult vote. She decides to make ice cream out of pudding mix because (1) the only “cooking” required is stirring, (2) she doesn’t have any eggs to make real ice cream, and (3) she’s tired and figures if the kids mess it up, the sacrifice is just a pack of pistachio pudding that has been in there longer than she cares to admit– who was even president when she bought this???
So the happy family made their Ice Cream Sandwiches with their easy, kid friendly pistachio ice cream, using pistachio pudding that ended up not being as old as she thought, since it was not yet drawing pudding social security. And the pistachio ice cream macarons were delicious. They really were.
BUT.
You know the way you feel when you are driving your perfectly good Toyota Camry down the road, windows down, thinking that all is right with the world . . . and suddenly you see a red Ferrari at a stoplight, just sitting there oozing sexiness and wanderlust? Suddenly you are filled with that incredible, almost maniacal “I wonder what it feels like to try THAT one” feeling. In that red Ferrari lusting kind of way, I wanted . . . MORE.
So that led me late at night, during those precious seconds after the kids are asleep, dinner is finally finished, the dishes are dried and put away, the laundry is folded, and the day’s work is done (usually about 45 seconds) to use my MOM FREE TIME to look up a real, grown up, big girl pistachio ice cream recipe.
And THAT led me to pistachio paste.