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Here's the 2nd part of my history with learning about, making and eating Christmas puddings as a New Yorker married to the loveliest of all Welsh woman.
My first Pudding:
That first winter together, I was able to help make the puddings. I was blown away by the amount of work it was. I knew it took eight hours to steam, but I didnt know it took almost as long to prepare them: painstakingly chopping the nuts and trying to slice the dried fruit into microscopic pieces. Not easy! I was ready to toss out the fruit and throw in some jelly as filler instead when Sacha had turned her back! I think she might have noticed, so I scrapped that plan, and continued with the task. At least I was rewarded during the Adding Of The Booze eight ounces of stout for the pudding, eight ounces for me. A shot of whiskey for the pudding, a shot for me. Repeat, and then repeat again. I could get used to this kind of baking! Once the puddings and I were well pickled, we stirred them for a half hour until all the goodness was mixed into an incredible smelling mass of deliciousness. The next day, we steamed them half the day while I watched footie and Sacha worked on making her varied homemade organic skin salves for an upcoming holiday craft fair. They came out looking perfect, and we spent the entire next day portioning them out into individual containers, sewing fabric to cover them and designing a label. Three full days from start to finish, and I had a blast the entire time.
Three weeks later, I attended my first of Sachas Winter Solstice parties, always on the closest Friday to the Solstice, Sach had hosted one annually for the past fifteen years. Here, all the locals from the East Village of NYC and the multitude of friends she had acquired over the years met, listened to old time jazz and swing music, danced and toasted the holidays. For several hours, we steamed the Gargantuan Pudding and awaited the lighting. Around midnight, Sach gave me the cue and I put on Louis Armstrongs Zat You Santa Claus?, everyone gathered into the living room of our railroad-style apartment, and out came Sacha with a saucepan filled of heated-up liquor. Amidst the circle of friends, she lit a match to the whiskey and the blue flame alit. With the pudding on a plate on the floor, she seductively danced around its perimeter, pouring the blazing booze over, while our friends whooped and cheered her on. The usually quiet and reserved Sacha had morphed into a Master of Ceremonies I may not have recognized, but loved and applauded. This was her tradition, and after this one perfect evening, it had become mine as well.
To be continued:
I'm a New Yorker married to a lovely Welsh woman, Sacha Jones, and this is my holiday tribute to her and my history discovering Christmas Puddings and becoming an equal partner in the making, eating and selling of her "Granny Jones Flaming Pagan Puddings". This post will be in 2 or 3 installments over the next couple days. I hope you enjoy! Diolch!
Part I:
Granny Jones Flaming Pagan Puddings, An Introduction
Its been eight years since I first tasted Granny Jones Flamin Pagan Puddings. I had recently begun dating my now wife, Sacha Jones, and she offered me a taste from the leftovers of a pudding she had steamed six months prior. She explained she made a batch every year one big one for her herself, and a dozen or so small ones which she sold during the holidays. Some went to ex-pats missing a piece of home, others to friends who had experienced the spectacle of the flaming pudding the previous year at her annual Winter Solstice Party. She went over a few of the ingredients with me: dried & fresh fruit, brown sugar, nuts, etc. I was skeptical. This pudding was sounding like the much maligned (and rightfully so) fruitcake often found in the US. In fact, for a number of years, my Uncle Bernie had been Brother Bernie, the monk, whose monastery used to sell them to make money, much like the Trappist Monks of Belgium made and sold beer. The one difference? Belgian beer is delicious. Fruitcakes? Not so much. Uncle Bernie gifted us one every Christmas. My mother would politely put it out with the other desserts, but no one ever ate it. With its candied cherries and pineapple encrusting the heaviest, hardest cake ever made by man. It was more useful as a blunt murder weapon than as a food. My father always joked there was only one fruitcake actually ever made, years prior, which was regifted over and over until every family had it in their possession at least once. Uncle Bernie left the monastery after a number of years, and the fruitcakes finally stopped coming. Praise the Lord. Sacha assured me this would be good. So with trepidation, I took a taste of the pudding. My immediate reaction was disbelief as it was soft and moist. Teeth could actually pierce its exterior! It was damn tasty. Sweet, but not sugary, and full of flavor from the raisins, currants, and alcohol. Delicious. I was an instant fan. Sacha then explained the ritual of lighting the puddings on fire. Heating up brandy, rum or whiskey in a pan, lighting the liquor with a match and pouring it over the pudding. A beautiful spectacle and true crowd pleaser, but one I had yet to witness and couldnt wait to see. I would have to wait six months.
A New York tradition Based in Wales:
Sacha names her puddings after her Gran, who resides in Blackwood. Shes 92 years old, and while her eyesight may be poor and it takes her awhile to move around the house, shes still full of energy and wit and loves when we visit. After a glass of wine or two, she commences telling stories of her growing up, meeting her husband and general life of Wales from fifty years prior. The types of tales she wouldnt have told when Sacha had been younger -- more private and on occasion, even risque. Its always a wonderfully entertaining evening where one learns the times may have been different, but the emotions, loves and desires are the same for every generation. During Sachas childhood, Granny Jones was responsible for making the Christmas puddings every year. The family would gather, and before the lighting, they would go around the room and make a wish for the upcoming year. In a family full of different versions of dominating personalities, it can be difficult to get everyone to be quiet and listen to each other. This was the one moment a year where all behaved (well, to a point) and tradition took over.
To be continued:
