The Daily Mail
By Victoria Moore
When I was growing up, my dad’s cousin, struggling to make a living as a farmer after the introduction of milk quotas, decided to turn his hand to making ice cream.
I remember peering into the dairy where expensive machinery churned the fresh milk and cream from the cows that I could see grazing in the fields.
And I remember, too, how delicious it was to eat those cornets, piled high with dark chocolate ice cream, licking and slurping and being careful not to lose a single drip.
There can’t be a child in Britain who doesn’t know that ice cream is made from gloriously rich, frozen double cream, sugar and sometimes eggs — after all, it’s there in the name, isn’t it? Ice cream. Or is it?