Making ice cream in Africa meant planning well ahead. It took lots of ice, so we all had to contribute. A pan of ice took up precious space in the tiny freezers of our kerosene fridges. We usually didn’t have cream so used powdered or UHT milk. One time, after a lot of work, we sat down to enjoy our luscious treat. Sadly, we had to throw it away for some of the rock salt had gotten into the milk mixture. As you can see from the photo, it was a team effort. That’s our headmistress Joyce on the left taking her turn at the crank, nurse Edith standing on the machine, and Helena lending a hand. I am on the right with Bretta and the other ladies crushing ice. A lot of work for a few spoons each of ice cream and a fond memory.
This was my very first blog post two years ago. I just added the photo of Grandpa and his harvester.
Grandpa was a farmer. In the 1800’s he grew wheat where sheep grazed and it was not long before others started to plant grain. He bought land on the other side of the river and planted almond trees. In a few years, the hills came alive with pink blossoms in spring and the town became the “almond capital of the world.”
Grandpa came from northern California to the central coast when he was 25 years old. By the time my dad was born Grandpa had moved the family from the farm into a two story Victorian in town. He ventured into business selling farm implements, and when Ford started to mass produce cars he opened one of the first dealerships.
I only knew Grandpa as an old man with a full head of dark hair who sat me on his knee to tease and give me pony rides and who…
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