It started with vanilla, as I’m sure it always does. So pure, so simple, just some cream, milk, sugar, vanilla — almost instant happiness. There’s just something about summer that intensifies the joys of ice cream. Yes, we can savor a scoop or two at any time of the year, but given the bounty of summer flavors, some of us get the urge to experiment with unexpected ingredients.

Armed with my sturdy little Cuisinart ice cream maker, I did just that during a span of several recent days. We traveled a sweet and savory path, the ice cream maker and I, and although it was a wonderful ride for the most part, we did run into an unexpected rocky road. But with my candy-laden tendencies, the journey began with blissful flavors.

Lavendar-honey. Cinnamon-rum raisin. They were so light and gentle, with just hint of spice. The fresh lavender from my yard garden reminds me of my mother, of spring. Peanut butter. Chocolate Stout. Oh, the peanut butter got me into real trouble. If there’s one thing I simply cannot resist, it’s peanut butter-flavored anything. And I’m horrified to confess that I consumed the whole quart of my “peanut butter bliss” in about three days. Embarrassing but so, so delicious.

Then a friend asked about beer ice cream. It would be like the Yard House’s beer floats, perhaps. I had my doubts — I am simply not a beer drinker — but I loved the challenge. A week later I presented him with ice cream made from chocolate stout.

I didn’t enjoy it — too bitter — but he and my other friends were very pleased. Well, for about four bites. Then the flavor was so strong (or maybe the alcohol?), and they couldn’t finish their bowls.

Sometimes the act of making the ice cream was a breeze, and I’d whip up a batch before work. But just as often, something went wrong and the ice cream simply didn’t freeze in the Cuisinart. Once I suspected I hadn’t chilled the mixture enough after simmering the ingredients. Another time I had no logical explanation. I simply dumped the whole thing into a Tupperware, shoved it into the freezer and was pleased to find it in a semi-solid state hours later.

As the summer wore on, I often ran into troubles with my little machine and found it just as easy to bypass the ice cream maker entirely.

But I wanted stranger, more bizarre flavors to experiment with. Looking online provided a wealth of weirdness: jalapeno-chocolate, wasabi, goat milk, tomato, garlic. (There’s a lot more disgusting flavors, but that’s for another story.)

Pomegranate. Mango coconut.

After the beer fiasco, I steered towards the fruit flavors. My trip to the produce market became a day-dreaming affair as I squeezed the fruit, weighing my options: Pear? No, not in season. Pineapple? Yes, pineapple with a coconut sauce!

Pomegranate was an automatic “yes” because they were abundantly available. Besides, the thought of the vibrant color kept me up at night.

Mango was a “definitely” — I can’t walk through my neighborhood without feeling awash in the bewitching aroma of ripe mangos. I couldn’t wait to take those mangos and freeze them into something wonderful.  
And then it just got weirder. I went from fruits to vegetables.

Avocado. Sweet corn.

I had my doubts about avocado, I’m sure you do, too, reading this. But it was one of the best ice creams I’ve ever made. Think of it: ripe avocados, already creamy and rich, chilled with milk and sweet cream.

I’ve never considered myself an adventurous chef. I’m quite competent: Give me a recipe and I’ll give you something edible if not downright tasty. I excel at classics done right — chicken marsala, pork chops, homemade mac ’n’ cheese. But I’m not a girl that goes nuts in the kitchen, throwing together salty and sweet and spicy and a little of this and a little of that. My dad used to say: “If you can read, you can cook,” which pretty much describes me in the kitchen. Passionate, yes, but with a recipe. But ice cream was opening up all sorts of exciting possibilities to me. Suddenly, I was pushing myself to create ice cream well beyond my comfort zone.

Flying high on the success of the avocado ice cream, I turned to sweet corn. Should be a breeze — and fun — and already naturally sweet, I thought.

Then something happened while I was straining the mixture. Staring up at me from the bottom of the sieve was all the sweet corn that had been shucked and cooked, surrounded by the creamy mixture. I grabbed a spoon and tried it unfrozen. It tasted like cold creamed corn. It looked like a Thanksgiving side dish. Suddenly, I feel I had strayed so far from the ice cream of my childhood dreams that I didn’t know how to get back. I didn’t want my sweet corn ice cream. I didn’t want vegetables or beer in my dessert.