What
Countertop churn, with motorised paddles and insulated cups. Discourages crystalline build up in iced-dessert mix.
Why?
Mi casa, mi casa.
Well?
OK, it’s January, so you may not want to read a review of an ice-cream maker – I didn’t want to see two Canada geese having sex right in the path of my walk this morning, but I did, so what I’m saying is: you can lump it. Or rather I can. On my first attempt at an easy mix to test the device, I overwhip the cream and the clumpy result clogs the feeding chute. (The chutes themselves are too shallow. A spoonful of my second mix, made with a proper yolk custard, lies quivering upon the surface, refusing to enter the filling hole.)
The machine isn’t a world beater. It’s not even a postcode beater. It churns a litre of ice-cream or sorbet (or thick milkshake if you send off for some special packets, which I don’t understand) split between two steep cups, which are annoying to scoop from the bottom. Plastic parts make operational noise unacceptably high. At this price, there’s no inbuilt cooler. Even chilling the tubs overnight, the mix won’t churn to more than soft scoop. (For anything harder, you’ll have to finish off yourself in the freezer, I’m afraid.)
Arguably, the worst thing about My Ice Cream – the clue is in the name – is its commitment to after-dinner selfishness. The double-cup arrangement is his’n’hers in structure, but the cups are labelled “Mine” and “Yours”. What’s the message? “Someone owns this set, and that someone is me. Dessert is on my say-so, and your ice-cream may be revoked.” I mean, all the things in my flat are technically mine, but it’s a bit Napoleonic to walk around labelling them as such. Of all the device’s flaws, this aggressive territoriality is the most interesting, and almost perversely seductive. The traditional his’n’hers motif – while being a heteronormative, trite badge of affluenza – does at least make a feeble stab at co-materialism. My Ice Cream says: sod that, it’s my ice-cream. To be honest, it’s quite refreshing.
Redeeming features?
The machine’s hoods resemble a mini version of the perm bonnets women sat under in 80s hairdressers. I always wondered if they were receiving extraterrestrial transmissions.
Counter, drawer, back of the cupboard?
Don’t fancy yours much. 2/5
