Steamed Ginger Pudding: classic English comfort food

If you were born in England in the first sixty years of the last century, you may get a tear in your eye when you hear the words 'steamed' and 'pudding'. On the other hand, if you were booted into a boarding school during your tender years, those two words may bring on spasms uncontrollable retching (but more of that later).

Sticky, lemon, ginger pud cloaked in custard.

My husband, born in the early Sixties in England, has lived in South Africa for almost 40 years, but is still hopelessly nostalgic about soft, cakey, syrupy steamed puddings, preferably cloaked in custard.

His soul - although thoroughly South African by now - continues to crave the gentle English comfort foods that he ate as a child, and, above all, he craves Proper Pudding. His late mother, Audrey Rayner, was an excellent and intuitive cook whose cooking style, though thoroughly and unashamedly English, had a lightness of touch and a finesse that completely abolishes any notions that traditional English food is stodgy, bland or boring. Audrey's almond tart is legendary in our family: try it for yourself.

This type of steamed pudding has a very long and interesting pedigree, and is a direct descendant of medieval and Elizabethan puddings. Containing shredded suet, meat, raisins, currants, spice and - later on - sugar, these mixtures were packed into sausage casings, stomach linings or linen, tied with string, and cooked in boiling water over an open range.

In her wonderful book Elinor Fettiplace's Receipt Book, Hilary Spurling remarks: 'The extraordinary thing about bag puddings is their longevity: they were hardly new inventions in 1604, and they retained a central position in English home cooking right up to the time of my mother and grandmother.'

Steamed and boiled puddings have made a modest showing over the past decade or so, as British celebrity chefs have plundered the past for inspiration, but they're still not mainstream enough to have made their way into the suburban kitchens of your average Jamie-and-Nigella-trained domestic cook. Perhaps this is because it seems like such a bother to have to steam a pudding (au contraire: it is astonishingly easy!). Maybe steamed puddings are just too old-fashioned (or inappropriate, if you live in a hot climate, as I do).

Or perhaps, as Hilary Spurling suggests, these puddings have lost favour because the associations with stodgy boarding-school food just run too deep: 'I suppose what finally did for them was the nauseating slatternly meanness of school and institutional food in wartime, and in the years of austerity that followed. People old enough to remember that time still have vivid memories of greasy, grey slabs of suet crust, slimy clothes and... congealed white fat on cold plates.'

Please don't be put off by this description: this pudding is so very good (and I speak as someone who never eats pudding, and only makes one if I'm trying to butter up my husband!).

I didn't have Audrey's original recipe for steamed ginger pudding, but I was determined to reproduce it, so I adapted a similar recipe (for 'Canary Pudding') from a book I think Audrey may have consulted: my own mum's first cookbook, Good Housekeeping's Picture Cookery, published in 1954. It took three tries for me to nail this recipe (the first attempt was too dry; the second too bland, and the third was Goldilocks-right, or so says my husband).

This pudding is best made in an old-fashioned glass pudding bowl of 1-litre capacity, but you can use a small, deep, square or circular ovenproof baking dish.

It's best served immediately, but you can make it in advance, set it aside, and steam it for another 20 minutes before you serve it.

Steamed Ginger Pudding

4 Tbsp (60 ml) golden syrup, warmed
8 small pieces preserved ginger, finely chopped
the finely grated zest and juice of a lemon (or an orange)
100 g unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup (160 ml) white granulated sugar
2 large free-range eggs, lightly beaten
2/3 cup (160 ml) cake flour
2 tsp (10 ml) powdered ginger
½ tsp (2.5 ml) baking powder
a pinch of salt
a little milk (see recipe)

Put a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan or stock pot on the heat, add five centimetres of water and bring to the boil. Butter a sturdy glass pudding bowl, or a thick-walled ceramic dish with a capacity of 1 litre. Cut a circle of tin foil or parchment paper big enough to cover the dish and overlap the edges by at least 7 centimetres, and set aside. Have some string ready.

Pour the syrup into the bottom of the buttered pudding bowl (you may need to warm the syrup first if it's a cold day) and add the chopped ginger pieces. Sprinkle with lemon juice, but do not stir. Set aside.

Put the softened butter and sugar into a new, large mixing bowl and beat vigorously, with an electric mixer, if you have one, until fluffy and well combined. Add the beaten egg, in small dollops, beating well between each dollop. Sift the cake flour, ginger, baking powder and salt into the butter/sugar mixture. Have a cup of of milk standing nearby. Starting at one side of the bowl, and using the electric beater or a whisk, gradually incorporate dry ingredients into the wet mixture, adding just enough milk (two to three tablespoons of milk is usually is enough) to achieve a soft, dropping consistency. Stir in the lemon zest.

Pour the batter gently into the buttered pudding bowl, taking care not to disturb the syrup. Cover with the circle of tin foil, pressing its overlapping edge down over the outside of the bowl. Wrap the piece of string around the bowl just below its lip (or top edge), and make a tight knot. Put the bowl into the big pan of boiling water: the water should reach half-way up the sides of the bowl. Cover the pan, and adjust the heat so that the water remains at a gentle rolling boil.

Cook for an hour and twenty minutes, checking the water level now and then. Remove the pudding bowl from the boiling water and run a sharp knife around the edges of the pudding to loosen it. Invert the pudding bowl onto a warmed platter and give it a good shake so that the pudding tips out cleanly.

Serve with extra syrup and warm custard or cold whipped cream or - what the heck - both.

Serves 4.

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Old-fashioned Quince Paste: a right royal Elizabethan treat

No fruit was more highly prized in in Tudor and Jacobean times than the noble quince, according to scholar and author Hilary Spurling. 'Why the quince and its products should have fallen utterly out of favour in England, when they didn't elsewhere, is a mystery', she writes in her wonderful, scholarly book Elinor Fettiplace's Receipt Book (more about Elinor Fettiplace here).

Spurling offers a fascinating insight into just how important and prized fruit 'marmalades' (with 'marmalade' used in its original sense; the word being derived from the word the Portuguese marmelada, meaning 'quince cheese' or 'quince jam').

Boxes of quince marmalade were a favourite medieval wedding present, 'and they remained a luxury gift for anyone from royalty downwards until well into the seventeenth century'. Quince marmalades, Spurling adds, sold in boxes or by the brick, were an established favourite in England long before the arrival of the orange variety that 'eventually got the upper hand on the breakfast table'.

Pastes, cheeses and jellies made from quinces live on in various forms: in Spain, Mexico and South America as membrillo, which is usually eaten with cheese; and in France as Pate de Coing or cotignac. And here endeth the history lesson.

Juicy little quince cubes

I was determined to try my hand at making quince cheese, for several reasons: the shops here in South Africa are full of quinces, a fruit I have come to love; I wanted to know what quince paste tasted like; and last but not least, because this recipe for Quince Jelly is - peculiarly - one of the most visited pages on this blog.

The quince paste was easy to make, and tastes sensational: very intense and fruity, and a beautiful deep carnelian colour. It's delicious paired with sharp, salty cheeses. Cubed and rolled in sugar, it's not unlike those treasured South African fruit delicacies mebos and guava or apricot roll (fruit leathers), although it has less gritty texture.

The magic of this recipe is watching the honey-coloured quinces turn, over three hours of cooking, into a gorgeous orange-ruby colour.

A mistake I made was to make the poured-out layer of paste too deep (mine was about 12 mm deep; and it took a full 10 days to dry to the point where I could easily cut it into cubes; I had to turn it over several times). I wasn't in any hurry, but next time I'll pour it out in a thinner - say, about 7 mm - layer.

None of the recipes I consulted (see below) specified a drying time, but I gather, in my reading, that the longer you keep the paste, the more leathery it becomes.

So what to do with the paste once you've made it? Er, that's a good question. I've cut half the paste into cubes, tossed them in granulated sugar and stored them between sheets of greaseproof paper, for lunchboxes and sweeties, and cut the rest into bars for enjoying, in slivers, with cheese and pickles. I read somewhere - and I wish I could remember where - that a few cubes of quince paste are wonderful for enriching gravies, or adding a fruity sharpness to casseroles and stews.

I used as references for this blog post several centuries-old recipes: Elinor Fettiplace's recipe To Make a Paste of Quinces, from the book mentioned above; To Make Quince Paste, from The Complete Confectioner by Hannah Glasse and others; Quince Paste, from Domestic Economy, and Cookery, for Rich and Poor, by a Lady, and instructions from The Italian Confectioner.


Elizabethan Quince Paste or 'Cheese'

6 large quinces
water to cover
a slice of lemon
white granulated sugar (see recipe for quantity)

Half-fill a big pot with cold water and into it squeeze a lemon quarter. Put the squeezed lemon quarter into the water. Using a cloth or tea towel, vigorously rub the quinces to remove any fluff. Now, using a heavy, sharp knife or cleaver, chop the quinces into big chunks - don't bother to peel, core or depip them (these bits contain the pectin that will set the jelly) - and drop the chunks into the lemoned water as you go (this will prevent them from discolouring).

 When you've chopped and added all the fruit, adjust the water level by removing or adding water: the quince chunks should be just covered. Bring to the boil, and then reduce the heat and boil over a gentle heat for about 45 minutes, or until the chunks are very tender and beginning to break apart.

Remove from the heat and allow to cool for 20 minutes. Tip the contents of the pot (in batches, if necessary) into the bowl of a food processor or a blender fitted with a metal blade. Process to a fine purée.

Now tip the purée (again, in batches if necessary) into a metal sieve and, using the back of a soup ladle, strain the mixture into a bowl. This is quite a laborious process, and will take up to ten minutes, but persist until you are left with just a mush of fibrous material. Scrape down the outside of the sieve and discard its contents. Now measure the smooth purée as you tip it back into the rinsed pot. Add an equal quantity of white granulated sugar (ie, if you have three cups of purée, add three cups of sugar). Put the pot over a medium heat and cook, stirring constantly, until every grain of sugar is dissolved. Now turn down the heat to its very lowest setting, and allow the mixture to simmer very slowly (you may need a heat-diffusing pad), stirring every 10 to 15 minutes, for about three to four hours. How long this will take depends on the type and ripeness of your fruit, the heat, and so on. As the mixture burbles (beware of volcanic bubbles) it will darken and eventually turn a deep, glorious brick-red. It is ready when it is very thick, and begins to pull away from the sides of the pot as you stir it: or when, as you pull a spoon through the middle of the paste, it leaves a gap (like the Red Sea parting) that closes very reluctantly. It should be very thick, like a polenta, and very red. Don't be tempted to turn up the heat and overcook it: it will candy and burn.

Line a large (about 40 cm x 40 cm) ceramic dish or a metal pan with clingfilm and pour the paste in, to a depth of about 7-10 mm. If you have any small fancy jelly moulds, with embossed bottoms, you can use these.

Cover with a net cloth or a metal-gauze food-protector to keep away insects, and set aside, in a warm, draughty place, or until the paste has set. For quicker drying, place the paste in the sun, and turn it every now and then. This will take between two and five days, depending on where on earth you live.

If you want the paste for sweetmeats, cube them, or cut them into lozenges, or use a small fancy cutter (such as a heart shape) to cut them up, and roll them in white granulated sugar. Stack the pieces between sheets of greaseproof or parchment paper, in a cardboard box, and store in a cool place. If you'd like to use the paste for serving with cheese, cut it into big chunks and allow to dry out completely (ie, it should have no trace of surface stickiness) before wrapping it in parchment paper.


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Easy Peasy Home-Made Gherkins with Garlic and Chillies

Easy Peasy Home-Made Gherkins with Garlic and Chillies

I blame McDonald's for the fact that my kids don't like gherkins. I've tried to persuade them that the putty-coloured flap of sea-slug that has burrowed into a McDonald's rat-burger could hardly be described as a gherkin, but they've been put off for life.

I love gherkins - specially little snappy cornichons - but I find the shop ones here in South Africa so acidic that they strip the skin from my tongue.

How difficult could they be to make, I thought, when I spotted a pile of little gherkin cucumbers at my greengrocer's. Easy peasy, is the answer. These were ready to eat three days after I bottled them, but I have no idea how long they will keep - I will let you know in a few weeks' time. (See note about storage at end of this post.)

I turned, for a recipe, to my all-time favourite recipe book, Lady Fettiplace's Receipt Book by Hilary Spurling. (More about this wonderful book later, but, in nutshell, these are the passed-down-over-generations recipes of a lady of the manor living at the time of Shakespeare, and they are astonishingly modern in their refinement and sophistication. Lady Fettiplace's hand-written recipe for 'white bisket bread', for example, is the earliest documented meringue recipe.)

In her brine for the recipe To Keep Hartichocks All the Yeare (which she uses for both pickled artichokes and 'cowcumbers') Lady Fettiplace uses water, verjuice, fennel and hyssop. A wonderful verjuice is produced here in South Africa by The Verjuice Company, but I didn't have any to hand, so I used half good white wine vinegar and half ordinary white spirit vinegar.

The book's author, Hilary Spurling, recommends cider vinegar in place of verjuice, but adds that white wine vinegar is probably better as it won't affect the colour of the brine. In any event, do use a a white wine vinegar that has a slight sweetness to it. White balsamic vinegar would be fantastic, if you can afford it.

You can add all sorts of spices and flavourings to these gherkins: here's the recipe as I made it.

Easy Peasy Home-Made Gherkins with Garlic and Chillies

1.2 kg fresh, crunchy pickling cucumbers
700 ml water
350 ml white wine vinegar
350 ml white spirit vinegar
5 tsp (20 ml) coarse sea salt (Kosher salt is perfect; see notes)
1 Tbsp (15 ml) black peppercorns
1 tsp (5 ml) fennel or dill seeds

Optional flavourings:
celery seeds
dried bay leaves
dried red chillies
sprigs of fresh dill
coriander seeds
whole garlic cloves, peeled

First sterilise some jars. Use pickling jars with loose lids and screw-on rings (see notes) or sturdy glass jars with metal lids lined on the inside with plastic. I sterilise jars by boiling them and their lids in a large pot for 10 minutes. I fish them out with the end of a wooden spoon, and put them (the jars only, not the lids) in an oven heated to 140°C for ten minutes to dry out, before placing them upside-down on several sheets of newspaper.

Wash the cucumbers and drain well. Put the water, the two vinegars, the salt, peppercorns and fennel or dill seeds into a large enamel (or Teflon-coated) pot, bring to the boil and boil hard for 5 minutes. Add the cucumbers in three batches - about one batch per minute - and quickly bring the brine and cucumbers back to the boil.

 As soon as the brine boils again, scoop the cucumbers out of the liquid, using a slotted spoon, and tightly pack them, vertically, into the warm, dry, sterilised jars. Keep the brine boiling briskly.

 Add a few peppercorns and fennel seeds from the pot - plus bay leaves, red chillies, whole peeled cloves of garlic, and whatever flavourings you'd like to add - to the jars. Use a clean chopstick to push chillies down into jar, or they'll bob to the top. Using a soup ladle, pour the boiling brine over the cucumbers, and fill to within 2 mm of the brim of each jar. Screw on the lids tightly. After fifteen minutes, tighten the lids again to form a tight seal. Store in the fridge. Ready after three to four days.

Makes 4 large (about 500 ml) jars.

Cook's Notes: 

- Metal utensils will react with the vinegar, so use a wooden or plastic spoon and an enamel or Teflon-coated pot.

- Use fresh, snappy, crunchy pickling cucumbers for this preserve. The crunchier your cucumbers are, the snappier your gherkins will be. I haven't tried this, but I read that you can make pickling cucumbers even crunchier by soaking them for two hours in an ice-cold bath of water and ice cubes.

- You can buy sturdy glass pickling jars (which come with metal, plastic-lined disc lids, and rings) in most supermarkets. Or, if you live in Johannesburg or Stellenbosch, you can get these directly from Consol shops.

-A recent study showed that fermented dill pickles can contain listeria so, to be on the safe side, keep your gherkins in the fridge. And read this.

- Don't use idiodized table salt, which may cloud your brine.

POSTSCRIPT: These gherkins lasted very well in the fridge. I opened and ate them after 6 weeks, and they were crunchy and snappy. The last jar was opened a week ago (end of June) and they were still flavoursome, although losing some of their crunch. The jars containing chillies were by far the best. Print Friendly