Homemade Ice Cream

My grandmother peels, pits, and chopsthe bag of peaches, fresh from the Krogeron Laurel Avenue, pureeing themin her Waring blender, as my grandfather fillsthe sides of the hand-cranked ice cream makerwith crushed ice and rock salt.

Beaumont, Texas, 1968. The worldis exploding, but my grandparents are doing their bestto seal the change inside the black-and-white TVin their living room. Still, I can hear the musiccoming from the big, ramshackle housebehind theirs—loud and angry, and not white at all.

They fill the stainless steel canister with peaches,condensed milk, sugar, and vanilla, and the longprocess begins. Everyone takes a turn—Mom, Dad, even my little sister,who can barely grasp the handle.

It seems to take forever.

They are so poor, I will learn later,and so angry at their poverty.They say things about their neighbors,horrible things I do not want to repeat.And yet on this July night well past the pivotpoint of the American century, we are all laughing,clapping our hands when the mixture finally thickensenough to eat. It is so good, I can almost taste itfifty years later—so creamy, so rich, so sweet.