{"product_id":"sweet-spot-isbn-9781101984192","title":"Sweet Spot","description":"\u003cb\u003eA journalist channels her ice-cream obsession, scouring the United States for the best artisanal brands and delving into the surprising history of ice cream and frozen treats in America. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e For Amy Ettinger, ice cream is not just a delicious snack but a circumstance and a time of year—frozen forever in memory. As the youngest child and only girl, ice cream embodied unstructured summers, freedom from the tyranny of her classmates, and a comforting escape from her chaotic, demanding family. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now as an adult and journalist, her love of ice cream has led to a fascinating journey to understand ice cream’s evolution and enduring power, complete with insight into the surprising history behind America’s early obsession with ice cream and her experience in an immersive ice-cream boot camp to learn from the masters. From a visit to the one place in the United States that makes real frozen custard in a mammoth machine known as the Iron Lung, to the vicious competition among small ice-cream makers and the turf wars among ice-cream trucks, to extreme flavors like foie gras and oyster, Ettinger encounters larger-than-life characters and uncovers what’s really behind America’s favorite frozen treats. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eSweet Spot\u003c\/i\u003e is a fun and spirited exploration of a treat Americans can’t get enough of—one that transports us back to our childhoods and will have you walking to the nearest shop for a cone.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSweet Spot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A surprisingly serious, impressively thorough treatment of ice cream’s cultural significance, fabrication, economics and history, not to mention its effect on human brain chemistry.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Ettinger’s] richly entertaining, easy-to-read narrative is infused with history, recipes and the science behind what makes for delicious—and sometimes not-so-delicious—flavors....Ettinger piles on double and triple scoops of fun information that offers literary deliciousness for ice cream lovers everywhere.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A breezy, appealing book...you don’t have to be a foodie to savor [Ettinger’s] tribute to a summer staple...Her travelogue is a scoop of fun for everyone.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—BookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In this breezy part memoir, part frozen-treat homage, journalist Ettinger takes readers on a tour of some of her favorite ice cream memories...A light, fun read for those who want some ice cream history along with their sundae.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Library Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Ettinger's book will be a vicarious treat for fellow addicts.\u003ci\u003e”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Sweet Spot\u003c\/i\u003e is an American epic told by an adventurous soul with an ice cream obsession. Wonderfully entertaining, witty and smart, superbly researched, and filled with a colorful cast of ice cream aficionados and fanatics, this book feels destined to become a classic for foodies and history buffs alike.\u003ci\u003e”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth McKenzie, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Portable Veblen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Amy Ettinger has written such a charming and passionate love story that you'll feel like maybe ice cream is what you need more of in your life. Because it's also a world view in a cone, this book, and it's just what we need right now: equal parts comfort and thrills, luscious escapism and delightfully obsessive reality, and pure, cover-to-cover yumminess.\u003ci\u003e”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Catherine Newman, author of \u003ci\u003eWaiting for Birdy\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eCatastrophic Happiness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An energetic romp through the history of ice cream in America. Science, politics, race, gender, class –Ettinger considers it all as she interviews ice cream icons, idealists, and innovators. With strong reporting full of heart, Ettinger takes us beyond sugar and cream to bring us the full story of America’s favorite dessert.\u003ci\u003e”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jessica Fechtor, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eStir\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whether chasing down butter pecan frozen custard in Cream City, USA, Mister Softee slugfests in Brooklyn, or candy cap mushroom gelato made from water buffalo milk in northern California, Amy Ettinger gets the scoop on ice cream's rich and wonderful past, present, and future.\u003ci\u003e”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Rien Fertel, author of \u003ci\u003eThe One True Barbecue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAmy Ettinger\u003c\/b\u003e is an essayist, journalist, and editor. She has written for the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York\u003c\/i\u003e magazine, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSalon\u003c\/i\u003e, and the \u003ci\u003eHuffington Post. S\u003c\/i\u003ehe lives in Santa Cruz, California, with her husband and daughter.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Consume Mass Quantities\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I keep between fifteen and thirty dollars' worth of ice cream in      my freezer at all times. Let me be clear: This ice cream is not      for guests, and most of it will never be consumed by anyone. These      pints are my emergency backup system in case the nearby San      Lorenzo River jumps the levee and floods the city of Santa Cruz or      a new crack opens along the Loma Prieta segment of the San Andreas      Fault. I prefer my ice cream fresh, and I detest the little ice      hairs that form when a carton has been left in the back of the      icebox too long. But when I've spent a long day chaperoning twenty      kids on a four-hour kindergarten field trip to some buggy swamp,      museum, or waste-reclamation center, I'm not above scraping tiny      icicles off the top and letting a bowl of Old Tyme Vanilla sit out      for five minutes until it thaws to an acceptable degree. Then I      will devour it in less than two minutes. On any given day I have      so many containers of ice cream stacked in my freezer, I can't      find the bread, broccoli, unshelled soybeans, or other staples my      family needs to survive. If we're low on freezer space, I      sometimes shove these lowly vegetables in the trash without      telling anyone. I've allowed the ice cream to dominate; pints and      quarts are stacked vertically and shoved into crevices      horizontally. Each time I open the freezer doors, a quart of      vanilla tumbles to the floor, landing on my foot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An ice cream maker, left over from my stash of wedding gifts,      occupies a third of my freezer. It has traveled across the country      with me twice. My husband wishes I would haul it out of there and      put it in the cabinet. That is out of the question. In order to      make ice cream, the machine must be kept frozen for at least      twenty-four hours. On any given night, I could wake up with a      craving for rum raisin ice cream, the incapacitating kind, soaked      with boozy flavor. Most store-bought rum raisin is ersatz; you      could eat seven gallons of the stuff and not feel the slightest      buzz. My homemade version could knock you out cold in a single      scoop. I like to think of it as a twenty-first-century      \"remedy\"-like the drug-filled concoctions at unscrupulous      Victorian-era pharmacy soda fountains. My rum-soaked concoction      once sent my husband careening into our living room furniture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I also make a vanilla that's more of a frozen custard, an eggier      version with real Tahitian vanilla and a dense consistency, very      different from the whipped-cream confections you will find in most      ice creams. I have taste-tested dozens of store-bought pints and      can proudly say that mine is the perfect topping for vodka-crusted      apple pie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here are a few more facts I'm only vaguely ashamed to admit: I      live within walking distance of three high-end supermarkets that      carry half a dozen artisanal brands and several locally made      pints. I visit one of the shops at least daily, checking on the      supply of my favorite flavors. I have also \"liked\" the local ice      cream parlors on Facebook just to track their daily flavors on my      news feeds. One local creamery has four different scoop shops but,      in a nod to Santa Cruz's laid-back style, has an online listing      for flavors in just one of those shops. As a result I must set      aside ten to fifteen minutes after dinner on summer nights just to      call around and see which has the dark chocolate salted caramel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I understand the hypocrisy of my choices. While I limit my      daughter's consumption of sugar to one dessert a day or less,      including juice drinks, I have always thought that the one and      only benefit of being an adult is that I can choose what I put in      my mouth. If I must walk an extra thirty minutes a day or suffer      through a Jillian Michaels video twice a week to offset my high      calorie intake, so be it. I am neither proud nor ashamed of the      amount of time and energy I spend on my preoccupation with ice      cream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After all, I share an obsession with millions of other Americans.      Every man, woman, and child in this nation consumes, on average,      almost twenty-two pounds of ice cream per year. That works out to      be roughly 26,400 calories' worth of ice cream. If I'm in some way      responsible for helping make this country the world leader in      consumption of frozen treats larded with mouthwatering butterfat,      I happily accept that honor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our collective obsession with ice cream goes all the way back to      our founding fathers. If my ice cream consumption seems      outrageous, consider George Washington, who spent two hundred      dollars on ice cream during the summer of 1790. That's the      equivalent of about three thousand bucks today, if you factor in      inflation. Thomas Jefferson, whose Declaration of Independence is      one of the greatest pieces of persuasive and declarative writings      in history, also wrote the first American ice cream recipe, a      French-inspired vanilla dessert that called for two bottles of      cream, six egg yolks, and half a pound of sugar. Jefferson even      had an icehouse built at Monticello, in large part because he      wanted to keep his treats from turning into a puddle of goo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Man and woman eating giant ice cream cone.\" The New York Public      Library Digital Collections. 1935-1945.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My almost daily ice cream consumption has warped my mind and reset      my taste buds. Part of the problem is that I eat so much of it-and      ice cream is more like a drug than any other food. Researchers      have studied the brains of addicts like me and have found that the      more ice cream you eat, the more you have to eat it to regain that      \"high.\" Eat too much high-fat or high-sugar food and it's harder      to feel that pleasure reward activate in your brain. \"This      down-regulation pattern is seen with frequent drug use, where the      more an individual uses the drug, the less reward they receive      from using it,\" according to Dr. Kyle Burger, coauthor of the      study conducted by the Oregon Research Institute, which focuses on      human behavior in relation to health issues, including obesity.      \"Repeated, overconsumption of high-fat or high-sugar foods may      alter how the brain responds to those foods in a way that      perpetuates further intake.\" This high-fat drug has been in my      bloodstream for as long as I can remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I've become more fussy about my fixes as the years have      passed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can remember eating generic Rocky Road with the jagged little      nuts, the sticky and cloying chocolate, and those slippery,      well-chilled little indestructible marshmallows that squeaked      between my teeth like cheese curds. It makes no sense now, but I      loved every bite. I was easy to please. Most anything could      transport me, even my father's squat and staticky black-and-white      TV set, in front of which I'd find myself swept away by Space:      1999, a television program featuring Barbara Bain and Martin      Landau clinging to the moon as it hurtles through outer space,      having gone off its orbital rails thanks to exploding nuclear      waste.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How did I grow up into an ice cream snob?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It isn't just my fault. Part of the problem is social conditioning      and changing standards. To be more specific, my taste buds and my      brain were forever altered by the introduction of \"gourmet\" Ben      \u0026amp; Jerry's flavors in the 1980s.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One winter afternoon I had a chance to talk with one of the men      who blew up my taste buds-Jerry Greenfield, the Jerry in Ben \u0026amp;      Jerry's.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The universe of Ben \u0026amp; Jerry's flavors opened a whole other      universe,\" he told me during a phone chat while he was on vacation      in Austin, Texas. Jerry gives all the credit for the ice cream      renaissance to his cohort, Ben Cohen. In fact, Jerry tells me that      his partner will be remembered as the greatest ice cream flavor      creator ever. I can't help it-I laugh with enthusiasm and      giddiness to be talking this kind of history with one of modern      ice cream's founding fathers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You can laugh if you want, but it's true,\" he admonished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His scolding surprised me. He was just a bit more prickly than I      imagined he'd be. \"But . . . don't you think people will remember      you the same way?\" I asked him. He was quiet, as if taken aback at      the reminder of his own legacy in the ice cream world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I never created a flavor,\" he admitted. \"I was making ice cream      to Ben's specifications and taste.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e During all my college evenings spent eating Phish Food and      watching Friends, I imagined Jerry to be a bit more creative,      free-spirited, and mellow, the type of person who would allow you      to weep on his shoulder after a bad breakup. But there's the      difference between the product and the person who creates the      product. It was the tubs of sugar and fat that brought me comfort,      not the man himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jerry said he grew up eating supermarket brands like Breyers,      which was considered a classy choice in the 1950s and 1960s      because of its \"all natural\" ingredients. Before Ben \u0026amp;      Jerry's, the ice cream scene was much more staid, consistent, and      predictable-and brands like Breyers exemplified comforting,      unchallenging food choices and convenience at a time when most      Americans lived in daily fear of nuclear incineration at the hands      of the Soviet Union. Without Breyers and other brands setting the      tone, people like Ben and Jerry would have had no context for      their acts of insurrection.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Breyers dates back to 1866, when William Breyer started the      business by making ice cream in his kitchen and delivering it by      horse-drawn wagon in Philadelphia. Bassetts Ice Cream-launched in      1861-actually predates Breyers as America's oldest ice cream      company. But Bassetts, which still sells its spectacular eggless      Philadelphia-style flavors at the Reading Terminal Market and      select retail spots, never had the distribution success that      Breyers enjoyed, and Breyers became the best-selling American ice      cream for generations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e West Coast dwellers have enjoyed the similarly named Dreyer's. The      brand, founded in 1928 by Joseph Edy and William Dreyer, was      originally named Edy's, a name that stuck until 1948, when Dreyer      built a large ice cream factory in Oakland and changed the company      name. Dreyer's still markets its ice cream as Edy's on the East      Coast, but the name change has caused confusion in other parts of      the country. In the 1980s, the Breyers and Dreyer's companies had      a bitter war over shelf space in Southern California's supermarket      cases after Breyers, based on the East Coast, started selling its      merchandise out west.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's not surprising the two businesses competed with each other so      much. Sometimes I feel like I've spent half my life trying to tell      these brands apart in the supermarket freezer section. No question      about it: Breyers and Dreyer's are, truly, the Tweedledee and      Tweedledum of mass-produced ice cream. And if you aren't confusing      the brands, you will spend your time struggling with their varying      strategies regarding punctuation. Breyers does not carry a      possessive, while Dreyer's, for some nefarious reason, has an      apostrophe after the r.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I am buying ice cream, the last thing I want to feel is      confused. Perhaps out of hurt pride or a wish for revenge,      Breyers, in vintage 1980s commercials, accused Dreyer's of using      less-than-natural ingredients, including corn syrup. In a rather      lame effort to avoid mix-ups, Breyers used to have advertisements      proclaiming that its name was \"Breyers with a B.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If you wanted more variety, you needed to go to a scoop shop, like      Baskin-Robbins, which offered its famous thirty-one flavors. Then,      in 1960, Reuben Mattus, a Bronx-based street peddler of homemade      ice creams, decided to add some intrigue and complication to this      rather boring ice cream landscape. After pushing his wares in a      horse-drawn wagon on hot, dirty avenues for years, he decided to      rebrand. He and his wife, Rose, came up with the exotic-sounding,      and utterly meaningless, name of HŠagen-Dazs and started charging      premium prices for the faux-Danish product. The umlaut hanging      over that first a added a frisson of Scandinavian freshness and      wholesomeness, conjuring up images of pristine fjords, bottomless      gorges, and waves crashing against the Baltic coast, never mind      the fact that Danes don't use umlauts. It was, in other words, an      utterly noncontextual and arguably bonkers marketing maneuver. But      it worked. Mattus gained notice. Suddenly people were willing to      pay more for the high-butterfat, low-air ice cream. Mattus had      three flavors at first: vanilla, chocolate, and coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"When I came out with HŠagen-Dazs, the quality of ice cream had      deteriorated to the point that it was just sweet and cold,\" Mattus      told The New York Times. \"Ice cream had become cheaper and      cheaper, so I just went the opposite way.\" A few pseudo-Nordic      copycats hit the ice cream scene not long after. Richard Smith      created a shell corporation in Sweden and started Frusen GlŠdjŽ      out of a plant in Utica, New York.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mom often walked around the house repeating the tag lines of      Frusen GlŠdjŽ commercials: \"If you don't feel guilty, it wasn't      that good\" and \"Who ate all the Frusen GlŠdjŽ?\" (The name means      \"Frozen Joy\" in Swedish.) HŠagen-Dazs sued unsuccessfully in 1980      to stop Frusen GlŠdjŽ from using a Scandinavian-themed ice cream      to market their product. HŠagen-Dazs accused them of \"umlaut      infringement,\" according to The New York Times; the plaintiffs      pointed out that both HŠagen-Dazs and Frusen GlŠdjŽ carried an      umlaut over the first a's in their names. That ploy didn't work;      Frusen GlŠdjŽ prevailed. But HŠagen-Dazs ultimately won our      bellies. Who ate all the Frusen GlŠdjŽ? I guess we all did. After      the Frusen GlŠdjŽ license was sold off, initially to Kraft, and      then to Unilever, the brand vanished from the marketplace      completely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ice cream imitators come and go, but true innovators are rare. One      of the few entrepreneurs who truly deserves the term innovator and      pioneer is Steve Herrell. Herrell's claim to fame: inventor of ice      cream with chunks of Heath English Toffee Bar mixed into it.      Herrell, like so many who go into the ice cream business, was      determined to work for himself. He experimented with adding      inclusions to ice cream, like Oreo cookies and Heath Bars, and      called them mix-ins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then came Ben and Jerry. The two schlubby hippies gave me hope      that there was more to life than bad synth pop, scrunchies, and      Falcon Crest. Suddenly I could eat ice cream with pretzels in it!      I woke up one day to find that thirty-one flavors were no longer      enough.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301917413605,"sku":"NP9781101984192","price":28.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101984192.jpg?v=1767737665","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/sweet-spot-isbn-9781101984192","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}