Batter Puddings
My Dad loves a rib of beef. An increasingly brutal preference for him to have with the costs of produce going one way and the cost of living going the other.
I’ve long parroted a line that we didn’t much go in for Sunday lunches at home when I was a kid. This is untrue. As an adult I don’t go in for Sunday lunch.
Growing up though, Sunday lunch was my Dad’s meal, the provisioning of and the cooking. I’ve never considered this before, but he took it rather seriously.
Saturday morning would see him head into Cranbrook, our nearest town, to complete three tasks. One, a banned, and subsequently covert mission to purchase the latest movies on DVD from his dealer at Bangham’s Records, the independent film and record store, long since closed (largely I am sure due to my fathers eventually enforced blanket ban on any new DVD or CD purchases); two, a stop at OneStop to secure every single weekend paper, plus a selection of ‘comics’ for whichever of his children he had in tow (comics being a loose term that even ended up encompassing FHM, Front, Zoo, GQ and Esquire when his brazen sons reached certain ages) and a good stash of sweets for the Saturday night film; and three, a trip to the butcher to pick up a hefty joint for his Sunday lunch. There were some variations on this Saturday morning ritual, namely the occasional venue change from Cranbrook to Tunbridge Wells, wherein the bag was secured from HMV, M&S and a butcher in a village on the way home. The swag was always the same though, and always secured.
Digressions aside, every second week was beef, sometimes a fillet or sirloin, often a rib, and this meant every second week was Yorkshire pudding.
I haven’t considered any of this for decades, but this week I was browsing my cookbook shelves in order to reduce my state-of-the-world induced anxiety and found myself back inside the pages of Molly Keane’s little tome of nursery cooking. Inside amongst other familiar treasures I found myself lingering on a double page spread dedicated to batter puddings. I reminisced, then I remonstrated, a familiar response in my brain.
My reminiscence was as above. My remonstration as below.
We’ve not made the most of the versatility of batter in the UK. In the hands of Nonna it can become the infamous and sought after Panelle or perhaps Fiori Fritti , Auntie in Sri Lanka turns it to Pakoda, in Kerala to Bhajia or Bondas or Dosa, Abuela might make Churros or Chile Rellenos.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to No Cartouche to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.