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This half-gallon marvel of non-leaching plastic is one of eight that now takes turns rotating from freezer to kitchen shelf.
It's easy to clean, does its appointed job of containing home made ice cream with the greatest of ease and stacks well for storage. So why the meltdown?
Well, it's Tupperware. And a lifetime of exposure to images of dowdily clad and coiffed, Stepford-esque housewives engaging in living room-based, borderline orgiastic festivities involving trunks overflowing with said storage items... well, it registered deeply in my consciousness as something never, ever to end up being and doing in life. Buffet tables laden with Jell-o moulds, canned fruit salads and other chemical concoctions just rounded out the end-of-the-world-ness of it all; and for decades, it was an intractable visual.
It still is, come to think of it; but necessity sometimes trumps vanity and its iron grip upon self-image. And early stereotypes can be remarkably tenacious. As our latest bovine family member, Ellie the Jersey (cow #3, for those keeping score), ingratiated herself into the fold, she bestowed us with copious quantities of milk each day. Since Kurtis had spent long stretches of his otherwise dubiously spent childhood at his grandparents' farm, he had solid experience with milking a cow. So our job descriptions easily sorted themselves out: Kurtis would do the milking and I would turn the surplus that didn't go to cow shareholders, into various types of cheese. Granted, the only cheese making experience I'd ever had was to strain yogurt over a bowl to make Tzatziki, but I'm usually a quick study.
A determined session on Amazon provided me with a couple of home cheese making books that set me on my way, and now I turn out surprisingly respectable batches of ricotta, paneer, fresh mozzarella, cream cheese, cottage cheese, neufchâtel, and other assorted fresh cheeses. Crème fraîche, butter and mascarpone are easy and gratifying, too. The recipes, unfortunately, all presume the use of pasteurized milk and cream, so there was considerable trial and error in my journey; but I worked it out. I'll graduate to the aged cheeses once we get hold of a press and improvise some sort of cheese cave in which to ripen them. But in the meantime, I'm building my confidence with the fresh varieties, and it's actually a lot of fun when I don't succumb to being overwhelmed by the huge, unwieldy stock pots; moody, undependable thermometers; and the daily, ocean-like output of fresh milk.
I store all of these curdled wonders in glass mason jars in the refrigerator, but when we decided to experiment with ice cream as an option for our shareholders, something freezer-friendly was needed. I scored a brand new Musso Lussino ice cream maker for a great price, we have lots of free-range eggs here, courtesy of our hens, and of course there is a ton of milk and cream on any given day. But how to store the ice cream? I cruised over to my favourite "green guides" on the 'net and checked them for advice on what types of non-toxic freezer storage might be available.
They were generous with their advice, as always. But the recurrence of the word "Tupperware" gave me pause. And a few shivers. If I planned to follow their advice, it would mean crossing a sacred line. It would mean sliding that much closer to becoming a polyester-clad, soap opera-watching hairdo-head pouring boiling water over packets of neon Jell-o mix for the weekly bridge club snack table. It would mean PTA meetings, soccer mom-hood (never mind that I don't have any children) and perhaps a suited Ward Cleaver of a husband coming home from work and settling down in his study to have a stern talk with Wally and the Beav. Never mind that Kurtis is nothing like Ward, and didn't even wear a 3-piece suit to our wedding. But I digress.
It turned out that the Tupperware ice cream container I'd resigned myself to purchase had been discontinued. But I hate taking "no" for an answer, so I headed off to eBay and managed to score a stack of brand new ones from a completely delightful seller who de-agonized the whole experience for me. Not only that, but in our e-mail conversations, she didn't seem at all like she'd stepped out of Stepford. The whole transaction had me reconsidering my previous fears and assumptions, and I was finally ready to enter this brave new world of plastic, food-specific containment without the burden of house parties with the ladies, elevated hair or a plethora of offspring.
The package arrived in record time, and I'm cringing as I write this, recalling that Kurtis had made some smart-ass remark about how I used to get excited about receiving high-end clothes and bags in the mail; and now I'm getting worked up over Tupperware. This was followed by a contorted expression and a harsh, "Who are you and what did you do with the woman I married?"
Needless to say, my new-found liberation through freezer containment instantly entered crisis mode. Not only would hardcore feminists rightfully look upon me with scorn, but I'd instantly lost all my city girl cred in one fell swoop of spousal verbal abuse.
But man, these beauties sure do keep ice cream fresh.