When it comes to puddings for Saturday or Sunday lunch, most of us are stuck in a rut. One friend calls me from the greengrocer’s every Saturday morning. ‘What will I do for pudding, Di?’ she asks, breathy with panic. She has left it to the last minute again and, falling back on the familiar, can’t think beyond crumble. There’s nothing wrong with that. The British do puddings very well and crumble is a classic. We have created pudds that make the best of leftovers – bread-and-butter pudding – and are economical (rice pudding).
Many have now been forgotten – when were you last offered six-cup pudding, so called because you use a cup to measure out its six ingredients – mostly because they’re heavy on the carbs. I wish more old-fashioned pudds had been resurrected the way Anton Mosimann breathed new life into bread-and-butter pudding. In the 1980s he showed us how to do it with soft rather than stale bread and a custard rich with cream, extra egg yolks and proper vanilla. His bread-and-butter pudding – cooked gently in a bain-marie – swells into a light, gold-tinged cloud.
The British talk about puddings, even when what we’re referring to might more accurately be considered a dessert. ‘Pudding’ is something robust and homely; they make you fall asleep after lunch. Even the word ‘pudding’ sounds fat and drowsy. They’re not all as hefty as a steamed sponge, though. Mary Norwak, in her book English Puddings, published by Grub Street (a must for every pudding lover) has chapters on pancakes and fritters, dumplings, pies and tarts, as well as dairy-rich flummeries, fools and syllabubs.
The word ‘dessert’ is used in America and other European countries. In my teens I cooked pears in red wine more often than any other sweet dish. I called it a pudding, though it’s really too elegant for that. Whichever word you use, home cooks generally look for sweet dishes that aren’t too complicated. America is a good hunting ground for simple, homely puddings. Their ‘crisps’ – the topping often incorporates oats – are much like our crumbles, though I like an American buckle – a buttery cake with fruit baked on top – best of all.
The French generally leave pudding – or le dessert – to pâtissiers. Glossy fruit tarts and, even more difficult for the home cook, gateaux made with layers of Genoise sponge, mousses and fruit, are served straight from ribbon-enrobed boxes. They did have a brief passion for ‘le crumble’ but the French are keener on structured desserts and have no shame about buying them.
Countries with a warm climate don’t have as developed a dessert culture as those with a cold one. In Italy and Spain diners are more likely to reach for a piece of fruit after a meal, though tiramisu travelled beyond Italy to become the ‘must have’ dessert of the 1980s. Spain has really eggy puddings, some made only with yolks and sugar. These developed because egg whites were used to clarify sherry and they had to find something to do with the yolks but approaching a pudding such as ‘tocino del cielo’, or ‘heavenly bacon’ – a baked custard made with yolks and sugar syrup – is a bit ambitious after roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
I’ve been in a pudding rut recently, the usual suspects always at the front of my mind, so I’ve dug into my past to find today’s offerings: a simple French tart that doesn’t require a pâtissier; a rum and coffee-soaked cake – glamourised for our times – that my mum made for thirty years; a yoghurt and honey torte – fresh tasting and lighter than any cheesecake – and a re-styled oldie, Queen of Puddings, made with a mango and passionfruit ‘jam.’
You still have to think ahead to get these ready for a weekend lunch, but they all give apple crumble a run for its money.
After my first trip to France – to stay with an exchange partner – I came home with a recipe for this. Tarts filled with eggs and cream are common in northern France. This is homely so feels right for weekend lunch.
