The last of the bewildering hot weather. Nights where one cotton sheet feels like being shrouded in carpet. Talking alone brings on the vapours, sweat beading on our foreheads as we nod sagely at someone we’re not listening to. Everyone drives like Vin Diesel, ramping up the volume on their car stereos, burning rubber as they overtake me on blind corners, tyres squealing like guinea pigs. And all I can think is how rude they’re being. That’s my version of a riot. Because I can’t complain. Because I’m English, and that’s all we do, while saying that we can’t do it. “I can’t complain” is our watchword. And I have been drawn to this detail of Englishness recently, perhaps because it’s so absent in LA.
Our English guests never complain either. We dance around each other in pained politeness. It must be akin to observing some ancient ritual – like conversational Morris dancing – with no one able to say exactly what the problem is, or even if there is a problem. “Do you have a parrot?” our English guest asked me today. “Er, no. Why?” “No, no, it’s fine. I just thought I heard a parrot at around five o’clock this morning.” I knew what it was because it had woken us too. “It was a coyote.” “Really?” “Yes, they live in the hills here and when they’ve killed a deer, they make a kind of ‘yipping’ sound. They do it with car alarms and fire engines as well.” “Oh right.” We all imagined a decapitated deer. “Great, well, see you around then! Thanks for breakfast.” “Don’t worry, it’s really safe here. They very rarely come down into the complex.” As I said this I remembered the coyote in the hallway and the mountain lion up by the tennis courts. They tranquillized it and carried it off somewhere. I wish I’d just said: “Yes, we have a parrot. We’ll kill it for you.”
I can’t imagine this conversation between Americans. I still don’t know what it was really about, but I felt in strange harmony with it. I’m leaving soon for England and it helped me get into the rhythm of things again. It was nice to talk to someone from Eastbourne, knowing that in a few days I will be walking the Downs, talking about the weather, bemoaning the end of summer, arms folded against the wind.
I would be happy if there were only five flavours of ice cream in the world: vanilla, chocolate, hazelnut, pistachio and rum & raisin. And raspberry ripple as a bonus flavour (for nostalgia purposes). But no cookie dough, rocky road or banoffee pie. And ‘sugar free’ vanilla – what’s that? Rum and raisin is a classic, and much underrated in my opinion. I know there are people who don’t like alcohol in sweets, but we will forge ahead regardless.
And this ice cream also lends itself to subtle doctoring: round and treacly Flame raisins, seeded Muscat raisins (sticky and crunchy and used traditionally in old bread recipes), meaty, soft, pale gold raisins (above) and Thompson seedless down below, still with their tails on, drowned in a saucer of rum – they are all so Californian, dried from the grape by our endless sun, and yet weirdly invisible, except for a few market stalls with their lumpen quarry. But I never gravitate there. Does one ever crave a raisin? But plumped up juicily in some searing alcohol and it’s quite a different matter. You could substitute the rum for sherry, if you like, and go for Pedro Ximénez if it’s available. This is a very ‘raisiny’ sherry, treacly and intense and good for a grown up ice cream such as this.
Rum & Raisin Ice Cream
Adapted from Ice Cream! by Pippa Cuthbert & Lindsay Cameron Wilson
The soft brown sugar creates a darker, more complex flavour, but you can use caster sugar instead if you like. Sherry works well in place of rum.
100g (¾ cup) raisins
100ml (½ cup) dark rum or sherry
300ml (1¼ cups) whole milk
4 large egg yolks
100g (¾ cup) soft brown sugar
200ml (scant 1 cup) heavy/double cream
Put the raisins and 75ml (¼ cup) of the rum or sherry in a bowl and set aside to soak overnight or until the raisins have absorbed almost all the liquid.
Heat the milk and cream in a heavy-bottomed saucepan to near-boiling point, then remove from the heat. Beat the egg yolks and sugar together, using an electric whisk, until thick and pale. Loosen the egg with some of the milk/cream mixture, then pour the eggs and sugar back into the saucepan. Stir well to mix everything properly and then return to a low heat. Stir until the mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon. Remove from the heat, pour into a bowl and place over iced water to cool. You will need to stir it from time to time to avoid the custard developing a skin.
When the mixture is completely cold, churn in an ice cream maker, adding the remaining rum/sherry and all the raisins towards the end of churning. The raisins have a tendency to sink to the bottom before the ice cream can harden and suspend them, so you may want to give it a stir after half an hour or so in the freezer to distribute the raisins more evenly. Serve with a glass of either rum or sherry, or just pour it straight over the ice cream.
Other recipes with raisins:
Stories from the Stove 
I love the parrot reference. Lovely looking ice cream too.
Thanks Conor. And the ice cream is indeed a winner. Sophie
Sophie–Have you read any Tom Perrotta? I’m thinking of LITTLE CHILDREN or THE LEFTOVERS. Like Perrotta’s, your humor is deeply subversive and a great pleasure, and I think, despite the American/English divide, you share a sardonic self-regard. (…and the ice cream sounds great too – my kids make fun of me for ordering rum-raisin, but I love it.) Ken
Thanks Ken. You are very kind. I have heard of but not read Tom Perrotta – but I will now scour the English bookshops for him. I am happy to be both subversive and sardonic – it can be a welcome antidote to some of the more languid aspects of Californian life. Sophie
Nice site, great photos.
Thank you, Paul. Nice to have your feedback.
Hi Sophie. You’re coming back to the UK at a great time, we’re having a very lovely start to autumn, and there is so much gorgeous produce around at all the farmers markets etc. Great post and recipe 🙂
Hello Kate – yes, I can now see for myself how wrong I was about the ‘end of summer’ because it has been extended, certainly where I am today. Lots of gorgeous things around, you’re right. And thank you for your nice comments.
I’m afraid that I’m not fond of ice-cream at all (weird, I know), but this does look lovely. I hope that you’re enjoying being back in the UK, and that you feel wonderfully at home there. It’s a great feeling, isn’t it?
It’s hard for me to imagine a world without ice cream….that sounds a bit sad, I know. Yes, I am enjoying the UK – feels rather like slipping into some well-worn shoes; soft and easy on the feet. Good to hear from you, Georgina x
A perfect description. Autumn is a wonderful time to be there as well – so different from LA. xx
It is such a pleasure to read your blog! I’m tempted by that gently melting scoop of ice cream and alarmed by the image and thought of a mountain lion creeping near a tennis court. LA is not for the faint of heart, is it?
Hello there – thank you for your lovely words. LA is certainly a challenging place. The wildlife make it, ironically, more appealing; you feel more connected to nature. And we are after all recent visitors compared to a lot of these animals….
Rum and Raisin ice cream is splendid and yours looks much more lovely than the one from the supermarket. Your story of English politeness brings to mind the early years of our marriage. I was from a family that usually beat around the bush in the name of politeness and my husband was from a family that spoke very directly, they were being honest maybe even a bit gritty. I am hopeful that the culture that has developed in our home is somewhere in the middle of these two extremes 🙂 We’ll see what our kids say when they grow up.
That’s very interesting Laila. Now that I am back in the UK for a bit, it’s very noticeable how indirect we are as a nation. We often see directness as rudeness I think. Gritty is a very good word – LA is certainly that. I think your children will have the best of both worlds – they certainly look like lovely little people. Sophie