One Cone, Hold the Boiled Peanuts
By Mike Olszewski
When we settled into our winter home in Florida, my wife Janice and I realized we’d have to adapt to certain Southern customs and cuisine.
Boiled peanuts are odd, does this menu say, “cheese and grits ravioli’? and that’s a hard pass on chicken livers and gizzards at the breakfast buffet.
But if there’s one food item that’s an American staple, it’s ice cream… though we’re learning there are significant regional variations.
Before we shelled out five bucks for a cup of coffee and still drank free water from a fountain, we had our version of ice cream, the homemade kind.
When I was a kid, I remember my father taking me for a ride in his prized 1960 Pontiac Bonneville, possibly the ugliest car ever produced. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Your grandmother needs rock salt,” he replied.
Rock salt? Grandma had a cinder driveway, it was the middle of summer, and we didn’t need to melt ice. Turns out, she had an ice cream churn that looked like a wooden bucket with a handle that was impossible to crank. She used rock salt to make her own ice cream (it keeps the ice from melting), tossing in whatever flavors she had around.
Going out for ice cream was a big deal. When we pulled into the parking lot and saw the lines, we were getting more than a cone; we were part of a shared social experience.
In Northeast Ohio, we have dozens of flavors available in stores, many seasonal and related to Ohio with “Buckeye” in the name, a combination of chocolate and peanut butter.
Back to this Southern-culture thing and ice cream. I’ve found a few pecans but plenty of pralines, “hot chocolate” made with peppers, a bacon-and-caramel topping, and peach everything.
Another difference with the local walk-up is a special, dog-sized sundae for our four-legged friends with vanilla ice cream, honey and peanut butter. Then there’s the alligator jerky by the cash register that I fear will someday be a sundae topping.
And don’t forget the local ice cream makers. Walking through the supermarket one afternoon, I noticed people milling around a freezer. When the crowd finally thinned, I was able to get a look and… well, let’s just say, my love affair with ice cream has taken a dramatic new turn! Alcohol ice cream.
Just hold the boiled peanuts.
