Pudding time and salad days

A recipe of memories

A few summers ago, while we were all in the early throes of Covid-life, Google released a state-by-state list of the most searched for desserts. Presumably, folks were trying to fill their days, and replenish their depleted social and emotional tanks, by turning to comfort food. I’m somewhat skeptical of the results of this index, because along with people in Massachusetts, New Jersey and Oregon, North Carolinians supposedly searched most often for tarte tatin.

I did the better part of my growing up (whatever that means) in the Old North State, with 22 years as a full-time resident, plus all my subsequent years as a frequent visitor, and I never once went out in search of said dessert. More than that, I don’t recall ever eating it there, let alone enjoying a homemade version.

No. I’m convinced. Something skewed the data. A 2020 Zoom-group of housebound French folks in Raleigh had a secret, socially distanced bake-off that August. A single parent of three in Charlotte believed that if she clicked the search button often enough, she’d find a way to get DoorDash to deliver a tarte and William Abadie at the same time.

Here’s what’s even more astonishing: In thirty of the remaining states, pudding-desserts were the top search choices. Thirty. Pudding. PUD-DING!! I’m not even counting the four states that weighed in for Yorkshire pudding, because that’s really a pastry with an unfortunate name.

A foamy, not-remotely-appetizing dessert. Image by Alina Matveycheva on Pexels

Additionally, three states ranked highest for Strawberry Pretzel Dessert, which, if you’ve never had the privilege, is a concoction comprised mainly of Jell-O, whipped cream, cream cheese and crushed pretzels. With its layers of squishy ingredients, it is pudding adjacent. Also, it’s not food. It is a strawberry-flavored, memory foam casserole.

For the record, if you go looking, you’ll discover that most strawberry-pretzel recipes are classified as salads, not desserts, which I suppose gives people license to chase their meal with banana pudding. Kill me now.

Really, though. What?!

Were we so agitated in 2020 that chewing was a deal breaker? Were our teeth failing from lack of dental care? What part of this wiggly, feeble assortment of desserts is comforting, then or now?

Clearly, I’m not a fan. I can, and will, eat items in the sweet-pudding category, which is how they show up most often in America, but only on rare occasion. Like when I have to practice politeness at somebody’s wake. Always a pleasure, honoring the dead by choking down the desserts of the living!

For me, it doesn’t matter if it’s made with old bread, bananas, rice, chocolate, coconut, chia, or tapioca. If I have a choice, I’m going to give it a wide berth.

I’m sure some of you are simultaneously clutching your pearls and your beloved desserts, so I’ll throw you a bone: Corn pudding. This I love! This we’ll be returning to in a moment.

Ironically, pudding is complicated. Though we mostly eat it as dessert here in the States, the British have a much broader view. I hesitate to call it an understanding or definition, because it’s a little soft around the edges on both counts, in my opinion.

In What Brits Talk About When They Talk About Pudding we learn that it’s kind of like Bubba’s infamous “shrimp is the fruit of the sea” scene in Forrest Gump. Article author Dan Nosowitz (not to be confused with Lieutenant Dan!) explains that the term pudding can encompass the entire final course—any sweet, substantive treat—or it can be a specific dessert.

Furthermore, puddings can be boiled, baked, or steamed. They can be savory foods like meat pies, sausages, and the popover-like Yorkshire pudding. Nosowitz uses a jellyfish analogy, referring to pudding as the body, with the tentacles representing all the different dishes that fall under the one amorphous heading. Apropos, I’d say, given that a jellyfish is basically both formless and witless.

No offense, Brits. Evidently, we Americans have a similar problem with salad.

Righto. Quite good. Now, back to corn pudding.

Like the aforementioned Yorkshire, this, made correctly (aka: the way I am accustomed to eating it) does not fit the American pudding paradigm. For one thing, it’s not meant to focus on the sweet. For another, it’s more texture than goo (a high-level, culinary term). Variations abound and most, sadly, still aren’t my speed.

Certain ingredients and methods can take what ought to be a simple dish all the way towards soufflé. Some recipes recommend buzzing up the corn with an immersion blender, or adding lots of sugar. I consulted a selection of my own cookbooks, and every recipe missed the mark.

• A corn pudding listing in The Oprah Magazine Cookbook (the cover of which was nearly gnawed off by my parents’ dog, a funny taste and texture story of its own) includes garlic, cheese, and chives.

• Deborah Madison’s Local Flavors version calls for onion, parsley, and marjoram.

• The Joy of Cooking (©1975) adds eggs as an option only if the corn is too watery.

• True to pudding heritage, Marion Cunningham’s Lost Recipes elevates the cooking method by steam-baking.

These are not my style, because these are not my Southern grandmother’s style. Clara, my father’s mother, was born in 1902. By the time I was old enough to eat corn pudding, she would have been the age I am today.

I know it’s not fair of me to expect any other recipe to measure up. The dish of my childhood is infused with memories, which add incomparable flavor.

My corn pudding holds the knobby movements of barefoot children absorbed in endless games of Red Light Green Light on the lawn. It incorporates the fresh, unbridled silliness when slick, black seeds from slices of juicy watermelon are used for spitting contests. It folds in the buttery back-and-forth of the old metal glider on the front porch. It carries the voice of my mother, not a native North Carolinian, who saved the recipe, used it well, and left it where I could find it again so many years later.

This naturally sweet combination of chewy corn and creamy milk, held together with just a couple of eggs and the smallest bit of flour, is the perfect companion to salty ham, flaky biscuits, and long-cooked green beans. Or, you might pair it with sautéed cabbage, onion and sausage, and a side of thick-sliced garden tomatoes. It’s best with local corn, or fresh-frozen, but commercial frozen will do.

If you look closely, between the lines of my grandmother’s handwriting, and in among the ingredients, you’ll discover the essence of a slow, simple Southern summer. This I love.

1968 - Clara in the center.

~Elizabeth

NB: PUDDING TIME (from Mental Floss)

Back in the 1500s, [pudding time] had the literal meaning of that blessed time when pudding was served. Later, pudding time referred to any lucky or fortuitous time. To come in pudding time was to arrive at the perfect time. English essayist Joseph Addison explained the saying back in 1716: “The ordinary Salutation is, Sir, I am glad to see you, you are come in Pudding-time.” Though they come from different sections of the menu, pudding times are later remembered as salad days.

Clara’s recipe: Corn Pudding (by “guess”)

2 cups corn
1 tbsp flour
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 tsp sugar
1 1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
2 tbsp melted butter
2 cups milk, or 1 milk - 1 half and half

To corn add flour and mix until smooth. Add other ingredients; pour into well buttered casserole or baking dish. Bake at 350° until set and slightly brown (light)
NB: You might try less milk. 2 cups seems right much for frozen corn since thinking about. However, the mixture should be really thin.
More sugar according to your taste.

My notes:

As with most good recipes, there is room for modification here. It’s worth admitting that the last time I made this, I didn’t have milk. So I used half heavy cream and half water. Contemporary corn is bred for sweetness, so sugar is probably unnecessary. But, it’s such a small amount that it’s hardly worth the gamble of omitting it. If the rest of your meal, or your family’s preferences warrant it, feel free to add a pinch of ground cayenne, maybe 1/8th of a teaspoon—not enough to change the overall character of the dish but enough to give it the slightest bit of zing.