My mum would take the large pyrex dish out of the oven. Open the drawer, take out a spoon. Open the cupboard, take out a saucer. Under my watchful gaze she would spoon away the brown caramelly skin that had formed (I would turn my nose up at that) and then take a spoonful of the creamy pudding and put it on the saucer to cool a little. I would then taste that delicious rice pudding.
My job was rather like the Man from Del Monte's job. Do you remember those adverts when the man in white suit and Havana hat would say yes and the orange harvest could begin. He never did say 'No', did he? I was the Girl from del Leeds but I could say yes or no to the amount of sugar in my mum's rice pudding. I was the arbiter of creaminess and sweetness. A lot depended on my decision on the exact flavouring of that rice pudding.
It was so creamy and luscious, baked in the oven for two or more hours with pints and pints of milk (we lived on a dairy farm) and I suspect far too much sugar. It always lived up to its promise of comfort and satisfaction. Never mind the tinned Ambrosia you could buy, this was the real food of the gods.
Then the next day my Dad would eat any leftovers up cold. No need for an extra bowl, just consume it out of the dish it was made in. That way he could scrape all the best sticky bits off the side. I think he sometimes poured golden syrup on. Ah the ritual of a rice pud.
I made one last week. My dessert is probably slightly less sweet, taste buds and lifestyles have changed. But it's still as good. I would have taken a photo but it was consumed before I had chance.
The only problem with a rice pud is cleaning the bowl afterwards - it took me a week to clean after soaking after soaking. Perhaps there was method in Dad's cold consumption of the rice pudding the next day - pour over the golden syrup and eat the bowl clean. It would have made my job a lot easier.
