Making ice cream for friends is my way of spreading joy — and cultivating some for myself

This First Person column is the experience of Elizabeth Hunt, who lives in Montreal. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

As she packed up her kitchen, my friend Alisha pulled a bright red appliance from the highest kitchen cabinet and turned to me: “Do you want this?”

“What is it?” I asked. 

“An ice cream machine,” she said. “I’ve had it for years and literally never used it. If anyone can do something with this machine, it’s you.”

Over the past decade, Alisha and I had forged a friendship over feeding each other’s kids and supporting each other’s struggles. Alisha was dubbed the “Almond Mom” by our combined crew of five kids for how she describes food by nutritional value, not tastiness. I got a reputation for having “the good snacks,” mostly because I make a mean chocolate chip cookie and a buttery Nutella crepe. 

I wasn’t sure if my baking and cooking skills extended to frozen treats, but moving homes can be stressful. I was more than happy to check “Figure out what to do with the ice cream maker” off Alisha's list. 

So I shrugged and said, "Sure," as Alisha thrust the ice cream churner in my hands. 

For the first couple of weeks, the appliance just sat on my counter as I debated whether to put it in storage, pass it on to someone else or try my hand at something new. 

In one of my regular chats with my Matante Rose-Marie, I told her about the ice cream maker. My 82-year-old aunt immediately launched into a story from the 1960s when her sister (my mother) had run an ice cream shop in Old Montreal for a few years and how her grandfather had been a beurrier (butter maker) in Saint-Jean-de-Matha, Que. My aunt seemed convinced that I was simply accepting my lineage in the dairy arts. 

So after some Googling and YouTubing, I attempted my first batch of ice cream. Vanilla was the simplest recipe. Plus, I’ve always heard that vanilla is the standard by which to judge any ice cream shop. If you can’t get vanilla right, don’t even bother with other flavours.

My first batch of vanilla ice cream was a little thin and soupy but surprisingly delicious. I was ridiculously proud of myself and wanted everyone to taste it. 

So I made more. I experimented with flavours, sweeteners, types of milk and how many crushed cookies a batch of vanilla ice cream can handle (about 23) to make “cookies 'n' cream.” I learned that the right temperature and correct churning time are essential to making creamy (not soupy) ice cream. 

When Alisha’s birthday came around, I promised to make any flavour ice cream she wanted. She was delighted that I was putting her neglected appliance to use. She chose raspberry and dark chocolate. I used real raspberries and chopped up squares of the intense dark chocolate that she and I often share after a glass of red wine and a long conversation. 

Folded into the ice cream was also a message for Alisha: I have created something delicious and filled with love (and nutrients) because you deserve some joy. 

Nicole was next. We have the kind of friendship where one of us can call the other at 4 a.m. because of a bad dream — or any worry, really — and be met with compassion and support. 

One day when my daughter was 10 she noticed that I was sad and asked, “Mama, do you need parenting?” When I worriedly assured her that it was not her job to parent me, she rolled her eyes and responded, “Obviously! I was gonna call Aunty Nicole.” 

Nicole hesitantly asked for rum and raisin ice cream. “This was my favourite flavour as a kid,” she said, “but the lactose in dairy doesn’t agree with me”. 

I left her house with a mason jar full of raisins soaking in dark rum and a promise to figure out an ice cream she could eat with joy. 

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The ice cream, made with lactose-free cream, turned out creamy and smooth and the plumped-up raisins provided pockets of sweet booziness (even though they all sank to the bottom during freezing, because I hadn’t yet mastered the intricacies of timing and temperature). 

And yet, Nicole declared it the best ice cream she'd ever had.

Motivated by Alisha and Nicole’s enthusiasm, I asked more friends to describe an ice cream flavour they’d like to savour. 

I learned to bloom matcha to make a strawberry-matcha concoction for my daughter’s friend’s 14th birthday (kids these days are way more sophisticated than I was in 1989). 

When one of my buddies asked for tiger tail, which is almost impossible to find in Quebec, I recreated a taste combination that I’d never tasted or even imagined could exist: orange and black licorice.

All of these flavours stretched my abilities and forced me to get creative about sourcing ingredients within my budget. Specials after Valentine’s Day and Easter made chocolate more affordable. A kind café owner agreed to sell me exactly three tablespoons of good-quality matcha when I balked at the price of a full package. Buying recyclable cardboard containers at a restaurant supply store proved more affordable and easier to manage than chasing down my Tupperwares loaned to friends all over Montreal. 

Several batches and birthdays later, the unthinkable happened: my churner stopped churning. I stared at the little machine on my countertop. I turned it off and back on. It made a sad little noise and then stopped. For good.

After a few days of living with the burnt-out little Cuisinart on my kitchen counter, I packed it up, dumped it at the local recycling centre and informed my friends that my ice cream era had come to an end. 

I was not prepared for the wave of sadness that hit me. 

“This is ridiculous,” I thought to myself. “I’ve known real grief in my life. This is just a hobby.” And yet, this sadness was real.

Somewhere between a Greek tragedy and a ridiculous soap opera, I’ve had the kind of life that makes therapists wince and friends gulp down their glass of wine. And then ask for another.

However, like many other people laden with a heavy past, I’m sick of my own story and tired of my own trauma. I thought “healing work’ would be full of revelation and closure. Mostly, it’s been about repeatedly greeting old emotional reactions and worn-out fears like houseguests who’ve outstayed their welcome.

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Slowly, I’ve been stitching together a lighter life for myself: weekly potlucks with friends, complimenting strangers’ outfits when I walk by, growing avocados and pineapples plants from kitchen scraps, learning Gen Z slang (to my kids’ dismay) and experimenting with ice cream flavours. 

Within two days of my little Cuisinart being sent to recycling, Nicole had scoured the second-hand online markets, found the same churner model in another colour and dropped it off at my apartment. She didn’t want praise or repayment. 

If you ask Nicole, she’d say that she had a vested interest in not losing her supply of lactose-free rum and raisin. But she understood something that I’m just starting to articulate: It’s not about the ice cream. 

It’s about creativity and the joy of gifting a bit of pleasure. It’s about the conversations with friends who share their memories, tastes and wild inventions. It’s about the thrill of taking on a challenge and the sense of accomplishment from creating something delicious that makes people smile. 

We need more pleasure and kindness in this world. I want to share my hopes and talents and the gifts I have to contribute. 

Thankfully, there are lots and lots of people who value real connection, generously offer help and support, know how to look for and find joy and make space for the deliciousness of life. 

And for them I make ice cream. 

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