Somewhere in the back of a kitchen cupboard, there sits a rather beautiful chrome finish ice-cream maker. It was something I felt I must have some four years ago: I used it once, and it has been burning a hole in my conscience ever since.
Having confessed my materialistic lapse to my daughter, she found the solution: I should make ice-cream with her two daughters. "Chocolate!" (Rosie) "Lots of colours!" (Abigail. With the unrealistic expectations of a three year old.) To cut a long story short, we ended up with a delicious chocolate smoothie and a shocking pink slush made the conventional way i.e. with lots of elbow grease and frequent fiddling about in and out of the freezer, which means we may have ice cream for breakfast.
Ben and Jerry, here I come.