The Philosophy (Or: Why Make Things Harder Than They Need To Be—A Question I Still Can't Fucking Answer)

The Philosophy (Or: Why Make Things Harder Than They Need To Be—A Question I Still Can’t Fucking Answer)

Ice cream can be both comforting and challenging, sport. It can taste like home and also like somewhere you’ve never been but saw in a really good travel documentary while high at 2 AM. These recipes ask you to expand your palate while respecting the traditions they’re pulling from, which is a delicate balance and also the kind of thing that sounds insufferably pretentious when you say it out loud. (Sorry. It’s true, though. I hate myself for writing it.)

Some of these flavors are going to seem weird as hell at first. Miso in ice cream? Olive oil in custard? Gochugaru’s fruity heat in something sweet? Your first instinct will be “that sounds wrong” or possibly “who the fuck hurt you?” But here’s the thing, friend: that initial weirdness is often where the best flavors live. Your brain just hasn’t made the connection yet between “dessert” and “umami” or “savory herbs” or “chile heat that doesn’t make you cry like a little bitch.” Give it time. Taste it more than once. Let yourself get used to it. By the third bite, you’ll stop thinking “this is weird” and start thinking “wait, is this genius?” (It’s genius. Or we’re all delusional. Probably both. Who gives a shit—it tastes good.)

Every component in these recipes serves a purpose, even when it seems like overkill, ace. The toasted rice crispies in miso matcha aren’t there to look cute—they echo genmaicha tea and add the kind of texture contrast that makes your brain light up like a pinball machine on drugs. The masa crumble in atole reinforces the corn base while adding texture, because if you’re going to make Mexican breakfast drink ice cream (and you are, you beautiful weirdo), you might as well commit to the bit with your whole ass. The semolina in sfogliatelle recreates the gritty crunch of the pastry shell, which is the whole damn point of sfogliatelle in the first place. If you’re not doing that, what the hell are you even doing?

Nothing’s here just to be fancy. Nothing’s here to make you feel inadequate. (You’ll do that to yourself without our help—trust me, I’ve seen it.) It’s all in service of flavor—of making something that tastes right, even when the ingredient list looks like a fucking joke someone’s playing on you.

And yeah, some of this is absolutely difficult for difficulty’s sake, and I’m not going to apologize for that shit, captain. You’re making something almost nobody else makes—either because they don’t know about it, or because they took one look at the ingredient list and said “absolutely the fuck not, I have a life.” You’re putting in effort that most people won’t, which makes you either dedicated or clinically unhinged. (Probably both. Definitely both. Welcome to the club, asshole.)

And when it works—when you taste that perfect balance of chocolate and chile that makes you go “oh SHIT that’s what this is supposed to taste like” and you actually moan out loud in your kitchen like a weirdo—you’ve made something genuinely special.

Or at the very least, you’ve made something you can brag about at dinner parties while everyone else brought store-bought shit, which is almost as good.