SUMMER IN THE CITY. Can’t say it’s my favorite. When the mercury reaches 100 degrees fahrenheit or more and it’s humid to boot, things get all out of whack. We stew in our own juices, bake in the corridors of urban concrete. Tempers flare; patience (mine anyway) gets pretty much liquified as well. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of things I enjoy about summer—the abundance of fruit, the ability to forgo socks—but I have to constantly remind myself of such rewards, lest I get surly.

It doesn’t help that friends (who shall remain nameless; you know who you are) post their amazing photographs of Greek island life on their Facebook pages. They taunt me with all the beautiful clichés: the bluest sea and whitewashed churches standing sentry over swimming coves; with copious salads and platters of seafood mezedes, not to mention their λίγω ουζακι (the indulgence of a “little ouzo” when the day is yet young).

Over there, although the sun sizzles even more intensely, it seems effortless—that feeling of kefi; that happy buzz of Greek spirit that makes you want to kick up your heels, giddy in community with friends. Mind you, this is not a daily reality I’m describing. Those not on vacation lead a very different life among the ancient stones and modern economic ruin. Still, I fantasize about hopping the next flight to Athens. I could reconnect with cousins, and there’s the new(ish) Acropolis Museum I haven’t yet seen.

Instead, I drag my overheated, lethargic, cranky self to the neighborhood housewares store to complete some boring errands and make the impulse purchase of the year: a set of star-shaped popsicle molds. Presto! Instant kefi.

My son was thrilled when he saw the molds; I didn’t tell him I had first dibs. I waited until he was asleep, then devised the following recipe: a lemonade ice pop with a bite of boozy anise flavor, the ouzo hit I’d been craving since my friend’s Facebook updates (but that I had not allowed myself to take, alone on my balcony, surrounded by brick and concrete rather than sand and shore). Drinking alone is pathetic, but these pops? Definitely not. I devoured three the next afternoon, while my son was in camp. After all, who could reproach a shot of pure Hellenic Opa! in the heat of the day, when it takes the form of a childhood summer classic?

Lemon-Ouzo Pops

Homemade popsicles get adult treatment and a Hellenic twist. These refreshing, subtly flavored ice pops blend two of Greece’s best-loved ingredients: lemon and ouzo. If you like the fizzy-tart tingle of lemonade, or have ever enjoyed the herbal taste of an anisette aperitif on the rocks, this is for you. As for the popsicle molds, you can certainly do without them—small paper cups and craft sticks work just fine, as do silicone molds with deep wells (such as for cannelé Bordelais).

Yield: 6 (3-ounce) popsicles

Ingredients:

1/2 cup freshly squeezed, strained lemon juice (2-3 large lemons)
1/2 cup simple syrup, chilled (see notes)
3 Tablespoons ouzo (Greek anisette aperitif)
1 to 1-1/4 cup cold water

Method:

Put lemon juice into a measuring cup that is larger than 2-cup capacity, preferably one with a pour spout. Add simple syrup and ouzo and mix well. Add enough cold water so that the total liquid reaches 18 ounces (2 and 1/4 cups). Fill six popsicle molds (or 3-ounce paper cups), stopping shy of the top to leave room for the freezing liquid to expand. Let set in the freezer for at least four hours.

To unmold pops, squeeze the plastic molds while pulling them off the pops; if they won’t release easily, then run some hot water briefly over the molds until they loosen.

Note on Simple Syrup:

I tend to keep a small batch of simple syrup on hand in the refrigerator most of the time. It’s ideal for sweetening ice pops, for making summer cocktails, or instead of granulated sugar in your iced teas and coffees. To make a light syrup, bring a quantity of water to boil (I usually start with 1 cup), then add an equal amount of sugar. Stir until the sugar dissolves completely, then take off the heat and let cool completely. Simple syrup can keep in a sealed container in the refrigerator for several months.

IT’S SPRING NOW, and for the first vernal weekend of 2010, the weather complied beautifully, at least in New York City. It may still be only a tease—we’re supposed to go back to rain and colder temperatures through the early part of the week—but for a few glorious days sunshine triumphed, coats and sweaters were cast off . . . and the Mister Softee trucks came out in force, making their first full assault of the season.

Would you like to experience New York at the height of irritability? (You wouldn’t? Humor me anyway.) All you need to do is take eight million people who’ve been cooped up all winter, give them a sunny day and an open window, and play them the Mister Softee jingle. You’re sure to see a fabulous display of the notorious stress levels and intolerance that plague the city. I have to admit that the jingle is annoying when repeated. Who wants to hear “the cream-i-est dream-i-est soft ice cream you get from Mis-ter Softee” on an endless loop? It’s a bit much, what with its chimes and cheap-music-box sound.

And yet, at least for this weekend, I couldn’t be bothered that one of those trucks parked itself at the foot of our apartment complex and seemed to stay there from late morning until nine o’clock at night, Saturday and Sunday. In fact, I took some small, private pleasure from it—but I was the only one. All weekend, my son complained aloud about the truck. Who ever heard of a child under ten complaining about an ice cream truck, I ask you? Especially when for the past four or five summers, said child has been one of Mister Softee’s best customers. My husband was not to be outdone. In a fit of grumpy-old-mandom, he threatened to go downstairs and tell the truck driver to beat it. So begins the annual ritual of Mister Softee bashing. It seems everyone in the city wants ice cream, but no one wants the trucks. A classic case of “Not in my backyard” . . . if only we had backyards here.

What our family does have, though, is a balcony. And an ice cream maker. So it seemed to me that the only thing to do this weekend (especially with an ice-cream truck boycott underway) was to start cracking eggs and measuring out the cream.  Of course, being me, I could not content myself with vanilla or chocolate. No, sir. This weekend, I decided to make something you’d never get from Mister Softee: goat-milk feta ice cream.

It may sound odd, but I promise it’s delicious. It even soothed my husband’s ire and tempted my son away from complaints and toward a swift calculation of how-much-dinner-do-I-have-to-eat-to-get-dessert? The one prerequisite is an affinity for dairy products with a sour tang, something I adore. This plus a “creamiest, dreamiest” texture makes the recipe one of my best new ice creams. Goat-milk feta ice cream is a great base for fresh fruit toppings and the perfect candidate for scooping atop a warm apple tart, which is how we served it tonight.

Goat-Milk Feta Ice Cream

Yield: Approximately 1 quart

Ingredients:

1/2 cup feta cheese (goat’s milk feta, if possible)

1/2 cup sour cream

2 cups plain goat’s milk

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup sugar, divided

8 egg yolks

Method:

In a blender, process the feta, sour cream, and 1/2 cup of the goat’s milk until smooth and set aside.

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat, bring the remaining goat’s milk, cream, and 1/2 cup sugar to a simmer. While the milk is heating, whisk together the egg yolks and the other 1/2 cup sugar.

When the milk is ready, pour a small amount into the egg mixture to temper it, whisking constantly. Add enough milk to warm the yolks and then pour the yolk mixture into the saucepan, still whisking. Cook the resulting custard over low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon until the back of the spoon is coated, 7-10 minutes.

Remove from heat and add feta mixture, whisking to incorporate. Strain into a bowl, discarding any solids. Let cool completely, then refrigerate for at least 4 hours.

Pour the chilled custard into an ice-cream maker and follow manufacturer’s instructions for making ice cream.