Big Dippers

were lucky enough to have a Grampa who, on especially sweltering Indiana days, dragged the ice cream maker out of the garage and become a hero. Mine would unfold his lawn chair beside the whining electric bucket, sweating through his undershirt as he heaved layers of bagged ice and rock salt into the machine’s churning maw. Finally, after an excruciating buildup, he’d unplug the extension cord, lift the metal core out onto the grass, and tell all the cousins to go get their bowls and spoons. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet. But whatever your gold standard for ice cream, Indy’s small-batch creameries and hometown scoop shops take that same simple formula—dairy and sugar mixed as they freeze—and work some magic of their own. From French vanilla to French violet, here are the homegrown