The empress of ice cream

Carlo

Few pleasures, indeed, can be made so cheaply as an ice.

The Book of Ices

Beyond Slough I came across a small country horse-fair. It was nothing special, but it was all the more special for that: children on ponies were showing off their prowess over tiny jumps; there were jugglers and lace-sellers, a competition for the biggest marrow, and another for the cow with the fastest milk. At the market stalls they were selUng gooseberries, blackcurrants, apricots and nuts.

I made a blackcurrant ice cream, and served it with the sweet, rich cream from the milk.

At Maidenhead I made an ice of lemon-cream and penny-mint, and sold it on market day for a ha’penny a glass.

At Newbury I bought gooseberries, and made an ice-cream fool.

At Hungerford I almost caused a riot with an. ice cream of Barcelona nuts. I had prepared two gallons, but such was the demand that many had to share. I saw country lasses and country boys licking spoons together, and by the time I left that place there was dancing around the maypoles.

At Castle Combe I spent the evenings writing down my recipes, and how to make ice colder with salt.

At Marlborough Fair I gave a demonstration - they thought it was a trick, and kept asking each other how I was fooling them. I had to give away the ice cream for nothing before they would beheve me.

At Bath I parked my cart outside the Assembly Rooms. I made

an ice of nectarines, and another of pistachios, and watched the fashionable lords and ladies skip like country folk for joy.

By the time I reached Bristol I had used up all my ice, except for a final pint or so. I put it in my rooms, and as I wrote my book of ices I watched it turn to water - clear and cool and pure.

I drank it wi^ a few drops of lemon-pulp, and a sprig of sweet cicely.

Bristol is a big town - the biggest in England, after London. It is said good ice can be got here, for use by the gentry. But I have had enough of making ices for now.

I have found a Mr Gregory, a bookseller, who has agreed to print the book. He seems a little surprised that I do not want money. But I have my tools, and my skill: it is enough for me.

I wonder if I will find Hannah in America. It seems unlikely even according to the unfinished map I have purchased, it is clearly a vast country. But somehow it does not seem impossible. Somehow nothing seems impossible, in a country so new and fresh it has not even been properly mapped yet.

A place where no man is born with stirrups on his back, for other men to ride him.

A new and dccumte map of the world.

Even if I do not find her, I will find love. Of that I am sure. I will be moved by the spirit of God’s grace within me, just as she described.

And as I sit here scribbling in this inn, waiting for my boat which is stiU two weeks away, I take a draught of water and I feel, somewhere deep inside me, a sliver of something hard and cold, something that has been there for as long as I can remember, finally start to melt.