ScotlandDay35: Sticky Toffee Pudding

Continuing the theme of being separated by common language, the concept of a cake as a ‘pudding’ is simply confounding to me.  And so, of course, I went to the internets in search of an explanation: just what is a ‘pudding’ in the collective consciousness of the British (sorry Scottish friends, but I’m including you as British on this one).

It turns out that ‘pudding’ referred originally to the manner of preparation (which actually clears nothing up for me): a pudding was something containing flour that was stuffed into a casing like a sheep’s intestine and then steamed or boiled, removed from its casing, sliced and served.  Pudding

As ‘pudding’ evokes an image as much of texture as of taste in the US,  I’m still trying to make the connection: was pudding referring to a somewhat jiggly, not-quite-set texture?  I’m still not sure.

But another article, even more interestingly, makes a case for the use of language to describe a meal within the UK as a matter of class distinction; thus, ‘pudding’ is to be preferred over ‘dessert’ (used by the newly rich gauche set). Pudding

And then, I searched exactly what goes into a sticky toffee pudding, and stumbled onto Jamie Oliver’s site, where his recipe calls for a dollop of Ovaltine – that’s right: Ovaltine.  (Never a fan, should I venture to make my own sticky toffee creation some day, I think I’ll skip the Ovaltine, The Christmas Story movie favorite connection notwithstanding).  Jamie Oliver's Recipe

Dining the other evening with friend Liz and a group of her supervision ministry students, all of us save Liz (who went for the healthy fruit plate option) opted for the sticky toffee pudding dessert (is that a redundancy?  I still don’t know).

Regardless of class implications and historical confusions, it was lovely.  Beautiful presentation (and yes, we all ate even the spun sugar and iced kumquat garnishes), wonderfully moist cake (aka pudding), delicate sauce and simple vanilla ice cream accompaniment made it plate-licking good (there I go again revealing my betrayal of all the good breeding my mother so desperately tried to instill in me at an early age – sorry Mom!).