CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AMELIA TWISTS HER HAIR INTO a tight bun and secures it with an elastic. She selects one of Molly’s aprons, a peach cotton one with tiny embroidered strawberries running along the edges, less for the mess and more for the luck it might bring her.
She begins with a simple batch of vanilla. With the help of the ice cream videos, she can see where Grady’s attempt went wrong, aside from his measuring.
A few places, actually.
He slid in the eggs too fast, into cream that was too hot. And he didn’t allow his base to properly chill before running it through the machine.
Whether she’ll do any better remains to be seen.
Her hands are shaking as she measures out the ingredients she’ll need, but she’s comforted by the fact that Molly Meade didn’t know what she was doing at first either. Amelia knows this for sure. She read it in Molly’s own words.
Sugar, skim milk powder, and fresh milk go into the saucepan. The last time she touched a whisk, she was making cupcakes for Cate’s birthday from a boxed mix, but she grabs one and has at it while the mixture froths and bubbles.
When she thinks everything is well blended, she whisks hard for another minute longer, just to make sure. Next comes the cream, next one vanilla bean she fishes out from the sticky brown syrup with her fingers. She stares at a thermometer, waiting for the thin red needle to rise until it hits 110 degrees. The eggs get whisked in a separate bowl, and she uses a little dollop of the hot cream mixture to warm them. She slides the eggs in and brings up the heat, then swiftly removes the saucepan from the stove.
One of the videos recommended steeping this mixture—the base—for at least twenty-four hours for maximum flavor, but there’s no time for that. Anyway, this is just a test. She’s pretty sure it won’t be anywhere near good enough.
From another video, she learns that there’s a difference between the two refrigerators in Molly’s kitchen. One is a blast chiller, which cools down the bases after they’ve been pasteurized; the other is a deep freezer, basically a smaller version of the walk-in down at the stand, which hardens the ice cream up after the base is run through the machine. Amelia never knew there were so many complex intricacies to making ice cream. Molly Meade was practically a scientist.
Since Amelia is making a small batch, just to see if she can even do it, she doesn’t think she needs to leave it in the blast chiller for the full hour the video recommends. Instead, she sets an alarm on her phone for thirty minutes. She puts on one of Molly’s old records, the Andrews Sisters, counts the grooves, and lines up the needle with “Rum and Coca-Cola,” a song she knows from the oldies station. She dances while cleaning up her mess, loving the nostalgic crackle it has. The songs after, she’s never heard before. “Let There Be Love.” “I’ll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time.” “Last Night on the Back Porch.”
When she finishes cleaning up, there’s about ten minutes left on the timer. She goes upstairs to Molly’s office.
She could, and probably should, sort through the contents of one more banker’s box. But her mind hinges back to the diary.
May 27, 1945
After V-E Day, everyone in Sand Lake is cautiously optimistic that the war will end soon. But fear still darkens me most days.
Here are my three greatest worries.
1. Wayne will die and we will never be married.
2. One or both of my brothers will die and my family—my mother in particular—will never recover.
3. Our dairy will not survive.
On a good day, I can mostly push them out of my head. But lately, it’s been harder. And this week, I’ve been in a sheer panic.
I haven’t gotten a letter from Wayne since the beginning of May.
The girls go out of their way to tell me what a mess the mail service is over there, with the boys getting moved around so much. Or how Sylvia Schur hadn’t heard from Neil George for weeks, only to get a bundle of five letters at once.
I have kept writing to him anyway. That’s the only thing I can do. I write my brothers, too, every Sunday, even though they never write me back, just Mother.
Making ice cream for the girls is my only relief right now. When I’m not, I’m sour as a lemon. And I know I’ve been terrible to Tiggy. Bless her, she lets me have my moments.
If I get a letter, everything will be OK .
Please, God, send him home to me.
When the batch is done, Amelia scoops a ball into a teacup and brings it upstairs. Grady is back at work in the living room, intensely typing on his laptop; his brow is furrowed, and he’s muttering quietly to himself. He reminds her of how her mom and her dad look every year around tax time. Like they are having no fun at all.
“I have something for you to try.”
“Hey!” He shuts his laptop. “Is that what I think it is?” His blues brighten as he bolts up, hurdles the coffee table, and races over to her.
“Please don’t be excited. I mean, it’s edible. But it’s not very good.”
He takes the spoon. “Amelia! What are you talking about? This is great! You’ve conquered vanilla!”
“It’s not,” she insists. “Take another taste, but this time, rub the ice cream against the roof of your mouth.” Grady does as instructed. “Do you taste those little waxy pieces?”
“Yeah.”
“That means I let it churn too long. Also, it barely tastes like vanilla. Molly’s vanilla was like . . . pow. Mine is a whisper.” She sighs. “I want to cook up another batch, but I need more ingredients.”
“I’ll head to the store right now,” and his enthusiasm makes her laugh. “Anything else I can do?”
“Keep looking for the recipes when you get back,” Amelia says. “And pray for rain.”