From my earliest memories homemade ice cream was a regular summertime treat. I don’t recall much of the preparation of said ice cream, only that I would “help” my dad as he hand cranked the bucket of sugary goodness- usually whilst sitting in the floor, working to the rhythm of whatever 70s rock was playing through his headphones- the cord of which was stretched from the console turntable across the room. I can see him sitting there in the shag carpet of the living room of our single wide trailer, back against the rust and green floral velour couch, bucket between his outstretched legs, head bobbing in time to the…