Bobbie Calhoun

Whenever my mother, an irascible Brooklynite, would get a hankering for an old-fashioned ice cream soda, made with real seltzer, Hershey’s chocolate syrup (no other brand would do), and whipped cream, she pulled this contraption out of the pantry, easily hefting the nearly ten pounds like it was a feather. The sound of the whirring machine, deafening in our tiny kitchen, brought my three brothers running from all corners of the house, the yard, the garage. Long-haired, bearded, back from college for the summer, they would crowd me out, the little sister, and I knew I wouldn’t get the first ice-cold treat that Mom was going to pour from the silvery vessel attached to The Green Monster. We’d run out of tall glasses, too, and I’d get mine in a coffee mug. It didn’t matter.

The taste of this confection brought back Brooklyn to my mother. The stories would pour forth like sweet cream, and all of us may as well have been in her old neighborhood, with the shopkeepers out on the sweltering sidewalk, yelling in Yiddish to potential customers to come in, come in, the most delightful things await you inside, bubbeleh!