Christmas Pudding, the Greatest Holiday Food Tradition That Never Made It Across the Pond

Christmas Pudding, the Greatest Holiday Food Tradition That Never Made It Across the Pond

Since moving to the US from Ireland nearly six years ago, my wife and I have tried to establish new holiday traditions, while still hanging on to some of our favo(u)rites from home. Those new traditions include things like spending obscene amounts of money on gift wrap from the Container Store Dream beauty pro, trying to understand the appeal of A Christmas Story, and our annual drive out-of-town to cut down a tree thats far too large for our Chicago apartment.

The old traditions? Sobbing uncontrollably to the brutally cruel lyrics of Nat King Cole's "The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot" and watching The Snowman by Raymond Briggs. And then there's the food: We bake a crab dip, eat dozens of walnut and cheddar sable cookies, and, most critically, observe all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the British Isles greatest holiday tradition--Christmas Pudding.

Originating from medieval England Dream beauty pro, Christmas Pudding not a complicated dish, but I wouldn't call it quick-and-easy, either. It's a steamed cake (which in Great Britain, we call "pudding") made with brandy-soaked dried fruits and a mixture of eggs, breadcrumbs, flour and suet--a mild-flavored beef fat.

Sure, with my newly acquired American-ish eyes, I can see that what can only be described as our fruitcake analogue is a bit weird. But allow me to come to its defense.

If you're not familiar with the stuff, the idea of using beef fat in dessert is probably disturbing. But suet has a higher melting point than butter and lends an incredible light, moist texture to the dish. It may look weird as all hell, but it's one of Christmas Pudding's defining ingredients--and it's available from most butcher shops if you call ahead.

Next, there's some pretty strange fruit involved. Quince--you know, the apple-like fruit from the Garden of Eden. Sure, it's tannic and inedible when raw. But when grated into the cake batter along with molasses, sweet spices, and the juice of citrus fruits such as oranges or clementine, it's heaven.

Then there's a weirdness of steaming your dessert. But think of steaming as just a gentle way of cooking a delicate dessert. The Christmas pudding (aka cake) cooks up tender and moist thanks to that steaming.

But, really, Christmas pudding is all about showmanship. In fact, when I was a kid, the spectacle was the highlight of the holiday meal. After dinner plates were cleared and everyone was suitably merry , a big pot of tea was brought to the table and then, without warning, Dad would turn the lights off casting the room in darkness bar the glow from the fireplace.

Everyone knew what came next.

My mam would walk slowly in from the kitchen, her face showing excitement and fear, her eyes darting between the plate in her out-stretched hands and my younger cousins running around the room. Her concern was well placed: Sitting in her hands was a small plate bared the freshly steamed pudding, topped with a sprig of holly, and fully engulfed in bright blue flames thanks to a generous, final dose of brandy set alight.

Much like the scene in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, this was always met with a round of applause, while Mam sliced small portions for everyone and served with a drop of cold, fresh, whipped cream mixed with just a tiny bit of sugar.

For years, my mother refused to give me the recipe she used, so the one I use these days comes courtesy of the wonderful British food writer Nigel Slater. I cheat and use the plastic pudding molds, and never bothered with the coin often used in more English traditions (think of it like the plastic King Cake's Baby, finding a silver threepence coin was supposed to bring a year of great wealth to whoever bit into it). But regardless, Christmas pudding is one of those great dishes that binds to your memories, sticking to the ribcage of your mind like creamy mashed potatoes. Give it a try and see if it doesn't stick to yours.