Today was kind of a whirlwind. I cranked out four separate bread pudding dishes as the weekend wound down and my time ran out. I had given myself specific restrictions to not let this endeavor last longer than the four days I had off from school, and then proceeded to wait until the last day to finish the task of making the four remaining recipes out of the five I had previously chosen.
I lost count of how many cups of raisins I poured, how many pieces of bread chunks scattered in various casserole dishes and loaf pans. I became a baking acrobat in the kitchen, stirring butter into scalding milk with one hand while opening up the oven and pulling a bubbling bread pudding dish out with the other. Let’s just say that if anyone were there to witness, they would have been duly impressed.
Because of skill or simply luck (it was definitely luck), all four came out around the same time, so I fixed myself a plate with samples and let the judging commence. I had a feeling that there had to be one among the batch that took me back to seventeen-year-old me, inhaling bread pudding like an addict, but only because this was my last day. In honesty, looking at the soggy spoonfuls, I was pretty nervous.
I started off with the Old Fashioned Bread Pudding recipe from the Betty Crocker website. I figured with decades under her belt, the gal would know a thing or two about a classic, delicious dish. The name also piqued my interest, and I had a sudden conversion to all things old and fashioned. Maybe I’d been doing it all wrong with the new, modern recipes, and needed to get back to some roots. The belief strengthened when I pierced the crust with my spoon and felt some resistance and a smile broke across my face when I heard that muted pop of years gone by. This one is it, I thought.
The outer crust didn’t disappoint—the bread browned well and had a nice crunch to it to counteract the custard consistency of the pudding nether regions. The nether regions, on the other hand, were a pretty big letdown.
The measly teaspoon of cinnamon got drowned out by the dish and swam limply somewhere in the pool of milk/egg combo at the bottom of the pan, this wet excess only explained because the bread had met its peak saturation. The overwhelming moistness of the bread was only trumped by the overwhelming amount of raisins that persisted even in my best efforts to pick them out of the sample and push them aside on the plate.
I ended up picking off the crunchy crust goodness and pairing it with one or two raisins that made it into the previous pile, and was satisfied with the consistency of this combo. I almost felt the nostalgia creeping in until I realized the shifting and picking of this bread pudding was too much work and snapped out of it. I was judging them on the overall quality, right? So as a whole, this one didn’t do it for me.
The second sample was of the Traditional British Bread and Butter Pudding, only because I was still on the classic kick. Maybe the quintessential Southern cook didn’t have it in her, but the British definitely did.
This recipe was different from the others in that it quartered sandwich bread instead of cutting cubes or using a crustier, denser French bread. The butter was just slathered on the bread itself instead of being incorporated into the milk mixture, and as my last version to make, I was happy to not be directed to melt butter in scalding milk. I wasn’t sure on how this would change the taste or consistency of the pudding though, but depended on the country’s insight to lead me to a tasty experience.
It was a flop. After over-baking the dish past its suggested time, the dessert never quite developed a crust, remaining as wet and soggy as ever. The raisins were once again, too present in this recipe, and the ¾ teaspoon of cinnamon was forgotten, so much so that I went back and looked at the ingredients to see if any spices had even been included. The consistency was uniform throughout the layers, with the only exception being the chewy raisins that presided at the top.
In their defense, the recipe did call for sultanas, a type of white seedless grape that originates in Turkey, Greece, and Iran, and are known to be sweeter than the American counterparts. Perhaps some of the blandness is accounted for in the lack of the recommended ingredient, but this excuse still doesn’t explain why the woody sweetness of cinnamon was lacking.
I hated to play into it, but the stereotype of bad British food came to mind when I scooted the rest of the sample over to the edge of the plate. Maybe I’ll give other recipes a try down the line, but for now, the motherland is on my shit list when it comes to bread pudding.
Weary and with my heart slowly breaking, I chose Gramma’s Apple Bread Pudding as my next taste. This was the only recipe of the five that included a fruit other than raisins in the original ingredients list, and because that fruit was apple—the best fruit ever—I knew it had to be good. This one was also baked in a pretty shallow pan per directions, which I thought would fix the mush problem. I had to reinstate my hope quickly, and I figured this pudding would be the one to do it.
I almost cried when I finished with the first bite. Although the consistency wasn’t milk-logged like the others, the taste didn’t resemble bread pudding at all. There wasn’t enough fluid to bind the dessert together, and the egg batter that I was instructed to pour over the top ended up puddling and creating pools of omelet on top. The bread part was bland and the apples dry; it basically tasted like a poor rendition of apple pie.
What was going on? I had placed faith in these recipes and the reviewer’s comments that reveled in the deliciousness of these dishes. It seemed that with each successive sample, I was being led away from the idealization of bread pudding. Maybe my memory was skewed, and these were in fact accurate representations, but I had romanticized the experience and created an unattainable taste. It seemed that my hopes were being sunk and I was going to walk away from this experience with the possibility of the less desirable outcome. I was going to effectively destroy the memory of bread pudding.
The last one left on the plate was a MomsWhoThink recipe titled simply, “Bread Pudding.” You’re like all the rest, I scoffed, already declaring this one a disaster. Jabbing at the sample with my spoon, I heard a muted pop, but overlooked it with pessimism. Suspended in front of me, I blew on the still steaming spoonful and rolled my eyes as I took a bite.
Holy crap. This one was yummy. The crust hit my teeth first and provided the right amount of crunch to the custard-like pudding that followed. The silkiness filled my mouth, accentuated by the sparse introduction of plump, juicy raisins. The bread bonded perfectly with the egg and milk, so the inside felt seamless while the crust remained separately intact with all its chewy, spongy goodness.
It was a delectable combination of texture, and the richness and depth of the taste didn’t hurt either. The spices really shined in this one, with the culmination of cinnamon and nutmeg creating a smoky, earthy flavor that lingered at the back of the throat while the raisins produced a burst of brightness that was pleasant but not overwhelming like the others.
I ate the whole sample without realizing it. Trekking back to the kitchen with plate in hand, I pushed aside the other casserole pots and baking pans and scooped out a more generous serving. Plopping down on the couch, I felt something welling up inside me, and as I ate the pudding with an ever increasing speed, that feeling began to come in focus. I was feeling seventeen again, with that simple joy of finding food to love.
My taste buds rejoiced and I settled into the delight that the search was over. I had found my pinnacle dessert once more, and although the taste and texture probably wasn’t the exact reproduction of the initial one, the reincarnation was pretty damn close. And who cares, at least this one was achievable.
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