Oh Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding
Christmas and culinary catastrophe go mitten in mitten in my family.
There was the time my father’s boss, like Scrooge after his epiphany, gifted us with a goose, one he’d shot. We spent Christmas dinner picking lead pellets out of our teeth. If I’m down a few IQ points, perhaps that explains it.
Then there was the time the WWII-vintage range’s heating coil turned up its toes about an hour into roasting the beef. My mother, at the end of the cooking time, thought it odd there weren’t more drippings in the pan— crimping her Yorkshire pudding plans — but the roast was nicely browned on the exterior. It wasn’t until my father took the carving knife to it and it practically scampered off the table that we realized what had happened. The only solution was to pan-fry slabs of beef for supper.
But nothing has topped the figgy pudding.
After my grandparents passed away, my mother began inviting friends to Christmas dinner to flesh out the table and make the meal more festive. Or, maybe she simply wanted more adults to outnumber the children. Whatever the reason, one Christmas she invited Inez and Peter, an English couple recently arrived in the States. When they asked what they could contribute to the meal, my mother replied, “I’ve always heard about figgy pudding but never tried it. Could you bring us a figgy pudding? Ho ho ho.”
Inez was too polite to say no. Figgy pudding requires time and effort. After the ingredients are assembled, it must be boiled in a mold for six hours, aged several weeks, then steamed another hour or two before being serving. I hope my mother didn’t know this when she asked. It’s not at all like bringing a salad.
Inez and Peter arrived Christmas evening, pudding in hand. The geometrically molded dome was placed in the kitchen for warmth, and Inez gave my mother instructions on proper presentation.
Figgy pudding is brought to the table aflame, topped with a sprig of holly symbolizing Christ’s crown of thorns. Brandy is the accelerant of choice. Inez supplied the holly.
We sat down to a beautiful table.
My mother pulls out all the stops for Christmas. Crystal, china, and silver come off the shelves. Cotton snow cushions a miniature village and mirror pond, complete with tiny skaters, on the sideboard. And the table is festooned with sprays of evergreen, pine cones and Christmas balls. The greenery, having been collected days before, is usually a tad dry by the time Christmas dinner rolls around.
A fine meal finished, it was time for dessert. The Americans were bursting with anticipation of a treat often sung but never seen. My mother headed into the kitchen, dimming the lights as she left the room.
She reappeared bearing a shallow, silver, footed tray crowned by the magnificent, flaming pudding. It was a scene drawn from Dickens. She placed the inferno in front of my father, taking care not to slosh the lake of burning brandy over the eighth-inch lip.
We applauded. The pudding flamed. Then it flamed some more. Its resolve to bring light to the darkness showed no sign of diminishing. Inez had not specified brandy quantity, and my mother had gone all in.
My father grew annoyed. Enough was enough. He decided to blow it out.
Such a large fire requires a mighty puff, and he let loose with a blast. Blazing brandy flew before it like squall, straight for the resinous repository in the middle of the table. The centerpiece caught fire. Everyone lept to their feet.
Good thing we use linen for special occasions. Water soaked napkins quickly smothered the singed arrangement and pudding before the fire got out of hand.
Back in our seats, the table a sea of soggy, sooty serviettes, it was time to try the pudding. Though it tasted suspiciously like fruit cake, it was far more memorable.
It’s all in the delivery.
If you want to make your own figgy pudding, you’d better start early. Here’s a link to NPR’s recipe.
Pro tip: go easy on the brandy.
Meg lives in Maine with her husband and two dogs where she does her best not to set the house on fire. The internet is another matter. As editor/owner of Resistance Poetry, she’s lobbed more than a few Molotov cocktails over the transom at Medium. Drop on by for a banquet of verse as commentary.
