Making Ice Cream with My Dad
I’m in Connecticut, where I spent most of my life, and I’ve been thinking lately about past summers, including some from the distant past. One of my fondest summer memories is of the first time I made ice cream. It was with my father at our former home in Darien where I grew up. I was probably in my late twenties on this inaugural day of ice cream making. I might have been thirty. I remember making it in the garage because it was kind of a messy process.
My dad had one of those old ice cream makers that required rock salt and bags of ice you had to crush into chips to get the job done. It wasn’t like the ice cream makers of today where you just put the little bucket in the freezer and then pop it into the machine, pour in the liquid, and it churns and chills and you’ve got ice cream. My dad’s ice cream maker was electric, however. It wasn’t so old that it had a hand crank, although I think
I’m working on the second draft of my fourth novel and I think a good comparison is making a cake and adding another layer. The first draft is the first layer, the foundation of the story. The plot and characters and settings are all there, but it’s not complete. Each time I make a new draft, I’m adding another layer, creating more depth and, I hope, a more detailed and interesting story. I’m also editing for language, flow, sentence structure, scene and chapter transitions, and all of the things that affect the readability of a book.