And only one of us is blond!

We got a call this morning from my bro, Joseph, who was on his way to the hospital with Andrea, who is in labor. (Nora Kathleen is here now! I'm so excited!)

So, mid-morning, Mama headed off to Memphis, leaving my sister-in-law, Karen, and me in charge of getting things ready for the fifty people who are coming tonight for our fourth of July cook out. Now, there weren't a lot of things to get ready - just stick the baked beans in the oven, make the homemade ice cream, and slice some tomatoes. Not a big deal, right?

Weeeelll....

I mixed up the ice cream, no problem. Stuck it in the ice cream freezer, shoveled a ton of ice in, added lots of rock salt, (Mama said to use half the box; by the end I had used it all. Sorry, Mama.) and let the freezer do its work.

But what seemed like only 20 minutes later, (in reality it was about 30,) the motor quit. Now, I don't know much about making ice cream. But I do know that when the motor quits, one of two things is true: the ice cream is done, or something is very wrong. Ice cream takes about 45 minutes to freeze, according to mama, so Karen and I felt totally sure it wasn't done. Ergo, something must be very wrong. We call Mama. She isn't much help. We unplug it, wait a minute, plug it back in. Nothing happens. We try turning the container ourselves, thinking it might be stuck. Nothing happens. We repeat the above about five times. We call Laura, who has never made ice cream either. Trey is grilling and can't come over. We take all the ice and salt out, put it into buckets, rearrange the container of ice cream liquid, add all the ice and salt again, cup by cup, and plug it in. Nothing happens.

"The motor must be bad," says I.

"Must be," says Karen.

"And that was Laura's motor, 'cause ours already gave out this summer," says I.

I called my cousin who lives right across the road. No, she doesn't have an ice cream maker. But she thinks her sister, my other cousin, who lives a little further down the road, might have one. I call her. It's in her attic. She'll get it.

Meanwhile, Karen puts the baked beans in the oven while I'm out of the room. She is a great cook, but has never cooked baked beans before, and Mama told her they were ready to go; so she stuck them right in.

Saran Wrap and all.

Oh, yes.

Five minutes later, I smell something really funky coming from the oven.

As I peel the melted, stinky plastic off the beans, I remember that Mamaw has an ice cream freezer. So, I get her motor, re-ajust the ice cream, plug it in.

Nothing.

Then, for the first time, we take the lid off.

Yeah. The ice cream is done.

Has been all along.