Ice Cream Dreams

I’ve been recuperating from a major abdominal operation for most of January. This has meant not cooking, which is akin to inhumane treatment in my case because I use cookery as therapy. It soothes me. Stress melts away when I potter in the kitchen. But a moratorium on standing too long and lifting heavy pans has led to a temporary cessation of such activity. Instead I’ve been day dreaming about ice cream. I love ice cream. It’s my desert island luxury. A never empty ice cream scoop and serve fridge.

My love of ice cream goes back to childhood. I’ve mentioned the summer trips to Lake Balaton each year with my family. I haven’t mentioned the heat. Hungary in summer is hot hot hot. Akin to Tuscany, the summers are long and sultry. Temperatures hit a humid 40C and create amazing thunderstorms that roll round the lakeshore. 1970s Hungary holiday apartments were not equipped with air conditioning. They were barely equipped with fridges to be honest. Thermos flasks and daily trips to the shops did a lot of heavy lifting. I remember milk in plastic bags, long before it was an ecological consideration in UK supermarkets. Usually sterilised for longevity, it would be put in a jug container for that day, mixed with chocolate Nesquik for our breakfasts, then stored in the tiny under counter fridge space. There was no freezer. But there was always ice cream.

In Hungary ice cream is called Fagylalt, shortened to fagy. Pronounced similar to fudge – the Hungarian alphabet has 40 letters, including 8 that are two characters and gy is one of these. We have 14 vowels… it is a complex language that I have tried and failed to learn beyond the basics. I am however, very good on the food words. I like to think this is because I accompanied my uncle out to the shops everyday. Bondibácsi didn’t speak English, I didn’t speak (much) Hungarian but we did play chess together and we both loved ice cream. No trip to the shops was complete without a stop at the ice cream parlour.

Hungarian ice cream is more akin to gelato than the heavily whipped ice cream of the UK. It’s made mostly with milk and is churned slowly, to create a dense, silky smooth texture. My abiding memory of the fagylalt of my childhood is the range of fruit based flavours that made the most of Hungary’s wonderful fruits. Apricot, white peach, morello cherry, pear, apple and raspberry were all commonly available. I learnt the names – sárgabarack, őszibarack megy, körte, alma, málna. But my favourite was puncs (punch). This pale pink morello cherry confection was enlivened by rum soaked raisins. It was Bondibácsi’s favourite too. He would bring a wide necked, cobalt blue, rough textured vacuum flask (I can see it and feel it on my fingertips, even now) to the parlour and have them fill it to the brim with puncs fagylalt. It was then a race against time to get the flask of melting gorgeousness back to the dinner table before it became a drink. I remember it as fresh, almost sorbet like but with a real hit of rum. Spooned into small glass dishes, we ate it with tiny coffee spoons, the better to savour it.

There is no recipe today. I cannot find a recipe for Hungarian ice cream. I asked my aunt but she didn’t have one either. Am sure there is one out there, but maybe not in English. I will persevere and when I am fit again, I will create puncs fagylalt.