The humidity is intense lately. If you forget to close the open door, the warm, moist air seeps into the cool kitchen; pints of milk or cans of cold seltzer left out on the counter will be covered in delicate beads of liquid within minutes, as if they’re sweating from the heat. Everything outside feels damp—jumping in the water offers a brief moment of relief, but in the height of July, even the shallow end of a swimming pool feels tepid and limp, like the water has just given up even pretending to stay cold.
Humidity means the arrival of summer storms—those early evening thunderstorms that sweep in ferociously and then disappear as quickly as they came, leaving the close-to-dusk sky looking a freshly washed shade of pale blue. It always seems to me as if the rain has wiped clean the entire world, creating that unusually delicate and fine color.
Those post-storm sunsets are some of the most beautiful, the setting sun striping the entire expanse of sky with broad swaths of pinks and orange. They remind me of the color names of bikinis in the J.Crew catalog back in the day: poppy, tangerine, coral, hydrangea, bright cerise, neon flamingo, and so on.
Before a thunderstorm on the farm, the air crackles with invisible electricity. (That’s not romantic, overly wrought writer-speak: you really can feel a palpable energy before it hits.) The wind picks up, ruffling the surface of the ponds and setting the leaves quivering in the big oak tree above the smokehouse.
Once the rain starts, you can stand outside for a few minutes, feeling the fat droplets hit your skin, before it becomes a deluge. Thunder claps loudly and you count the seconds before you see the first lightning bolt one…two…three, gleefully shouting “it’s three miles away!” before the storm sends you rushing inside to watch the water stream down the windows. It’s thrilling—the sensation is what I imagine being a figurine nside a shaken-up Mason jar of water would feel like, topsy-turvy and battening down the hatches while the rain hits from all sides.
Then it passes. A stillness settles over everything and there’s usually a rainbow. The farm looks especially lush and green: the fields of the cow pasture, the grass of the lawn, the rows of corn growing tall in the hills abutting the far-off woods.
It’s as if the entire world has taken a thirsty gulp of water.
Thunderstorms are beautiful at the beach, too. In college, I spent a summer working on Block Island (a tiny teardrop-shaped bit of land just off the coast of Rhode Island). I waitressed at a restaurant that was perched right on the edge of the dunes of a popular beach that stretches along Corn Neck Road. The wide swath of smooth sand bumps up against the road, and you can run across it and end up right on the porch of the restaurant, which boasts some of the best uninterrupted water views on the island.
The most coveted tables were the outdoor ones; and when a storm threatened out on the horizon, bussers would rush out to unfurl the plastic tarps that protected the porch from the elements.
You could stand at the doorway and see the progress of the storm: the ever-darkening clouds rolling in across the water. The neon threads of lightning flickering rapidly across the surface of the sound. The dull percussion of raindrops on the roof overhead and the particular smell of rainwater hitting the hot, steamy asphalt of the worn road.
Some nights I wouldn’t be working when a storm hit—I’d be tucked inside the tiny pink wooden house where I lived that summer (aptly named Strawberry Shortcake). If I was quick enough, I’d duck out to jump in the outdoor shower, as showering in the pouring rain is a very specific and wonderful pleasure.
Back inside, I’d curl up in clean pajamas on my mattress (no bed, it was a bare bones summer!) and spread out a picnic assembled in my tiny “kitchen”: a small alcove with a hot plate and half refrigerator.
My grocery budget wasn’t expansive, and I often ate at the restaurant after my shift, but I liked to splurge on a fat wedge of Brie cheese to pair with a $2 baguette or, if I was feeling celebratory, a box of Carr’s water crackers. On any given day, the tiny fridge might be crammed full with a pint of local strawberries,, cold leftover pad Thai from the good takeout spot overlooking the harbor, and sliced turkey for beach sandwiches.
Once the storm was over, I’d walk out to the front porch to sit with my bare feet tucked underneath me, a pint of ice cream and a spoon in one hand and a book in the other. Here is where I’d watch the ocean settle itself down for the night, the roiling whitecaps dissolving into soft waves that lap up against the rocky eastern beach just below me.
Post-storm ice cream-eating is a summer experience you should have, much like skinnydipping at night or eating a handful of cherry tomatoes right off the vine. (If you can manage to accomplish this somewhere outside, on the shore of a lake or the edge of a beach or a blanket spread out in a meadow, so much the better.)
My flavor of choice during that Block Island summer was Ben & Jerry’s Cinnamon Buns—caramel ice cream with cinnamon bun dough and a cinnamon streusel swirl. Other summers had their own favorites: freshman year, in Holderness, New Hampshire, it was also Ben & Jerry’s, but the (now discontinued) Black & Tan flavor—cream stout ice cream swirled with chocolate ice cream. Summers growing up at home meant my mom’s homemade Grape-Nut ice cream, which might be one of the all-time best foods, period.
I recommend you discover a new and unusual flavor this summer—branch out! Make it your own, and weather a few storms with it. I’ve got a few good ones in the archives (coconut beet and strawberry basil); I also really like this roasted blueberry and crème fraiche one which you can find here on Food52.
Or, try this recipe for a silky-smooth, luscious butternut squash and tahini ice cream. It has a tiny bit of cinnamon (which you add by making a cinnamon-infused milk, FUN) and an almost peanut butter-y nuttiness from the tahini; while butternut squash might seem like a weird summer flavor, it’s a seriously excellent ice cream ingredient. I top mine with caramelized almonds for crunch but you could leave those off, or substitute some sort of streusel or just chopped toasted nuts.
Recipe note: If you don’t have—or don’t want to cook—butternut squash, you can easily substitute sweet potato puree.
Butternut Squash Tahini Ice Cream with Caramelized Almonds
Makes 1 quart
For the ice cream
1 butternut squash (about 1 ½ pounds)
1 tablespoon butter
2 ½ cups (567g) whole milk
5 cinnamon sticks
¾ cup (148g) plus 3 tablespoons sugar
½ cup (113g) heavy cream
¼ teaspoon kosher salt
5 egg yolks
½ cup (128g) tahini
For the almonds
¾ cup (64g) sliced almonds
3 tablespoons sugar
pinch of salt
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Peel, deseed, and cube the squash into small 2” cubes. Place them on a foil-lined baking sheet and dot with butter. Cover with more foil and roast the squash for about 45 minutes, until soft and easily pricked with a fork.
Remove the squash from the oven, let sit until cool enough to handle, and puree in a blender or food processor until very smooth. Measure out 1 ½ cups of the puree into a large bowl and save the rest for another use.
Place the whole milk in a saucepan and add the cinnamon sticks. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Once boiling, turn off the heat and cover. Let the milk sit for 30 minutes to infuse.
Measure out 2 cups of the cinnamon-infused milk and put it in a saucepan. Add the heavy cream, ½ cup of the sugar, ¼ teaspoon of kosher salt, and the tahini. Mix well and bring to a boil.
Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks and the remaining ¼ cup plus 3 tablespoons of sugar in a large bowl. Once the milk mixture boils, pour it very slowly into the bowl of egg yolks and sugar, whisking constantly as you pour.
Pour the custard mixture back into the saucepan and cook over medium-low heat, whisking constantly, until it is thickened slightly (about 7 minutes).
Pour the hot thickened custard into the bowl with the squash puree and whisk very well. Let cool to room temperature and then chill, covered, overnight.
The next day, pour the chilled custard into an ice cream maker and freeze according the machine directions.
While the ice cream churns, make the caramelized almonds.
Place the almonds, 3 tablespoons sugar, and pinch of salt into a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the sugar is dark amber and caramelized. Transfer to a plate and let cool.
When the ice cream is thickened but not entirely frozen, break the caramelized almonds in small pieces and add them into the ice cream maker as the ice cream finishes churning.
When fully frozen, transfer the ice cream into a 1-quart container and place in the freezer to store.