The Search for the Perfect Bread Pudding: The Beginning

It was a rare thing, and its sporadic inclusion in my life over the course of six weeks was something to be celebrated and cherished. When it would make its unexpected appearance, all other food groups were dismissed and there it sat, in single scoop dessert bowls surrounding me as my friends conceded to my demands and offered their sweets rations for the meal.

I held my spoon in tense euphoria, listening for the muted pop of the outer crust and then in the utensil would dive, cutting through the soft spongy middle until hitting bottom. Each serving would be devoured in as little as four bites, the bowls stacking haphazardly to the side of my tray.

There were murmurings within our small group of friends that I was addicted, and my reaction that can only be described as pure elation was the cornerstone of many impersonations, but I didn’t care. I had found the Mecca of desserts, lamenting the tragedy of being previously unaware of its existence but now firmly and ecstatically devoted.

It’s hard to take someone seriously when she says the best bread pudding she’s ever had came from the Hendrix cafeteria during Arkansas Governor’s School, but that’s the sobering reality. It flitted into my life momentarily and I was devastated to see it go at the end of that summer, but I now had this innocent and unfounded purpose to delight in the world of all things bread pudding. I began hoarding recipes for the dessert during my senior year of high school, timid of imitation and overly reminiscent. I had just begun regularly baking and was afraid of tainting my nostalgia.

It was approximately four failed recipes in when I turned my back on the thing and gave up. Every attempt ended in a mushy mess that then ended in a mournful trashcan burial. I tried two five-star recipes after searching through endless sites, sticking to the original versions first and then reading the eighty comments attached to each and making modifications for the second batches when the originals came out as big puddles of soggy bread.

When one resembled an over-cinnamoned omelet and the other something akin to grits, I summoned whatever vague taste memory I had of the perfect voluptuously custardy beginning and decided to forego tainting it further. I had done enough damage in the bread pudding world, and I had to accept that I would never taste the delectable smooth fullness again. I’ll always have the memories, I thought, and let it be that.

It’s been three years, and I don’t know whether it’s a reinstatement of ignorance or my washing away of past grievances, but I’m willing to try again. In the time since I last had a go at the dessert, I’ve fine-tuned my baking skills and feel a bit more comfortable while wielding a whisk. I’ve also maintained that nostalgic craving for bread pudding, and have since added a stubbornness that refuses to let this one seemingly simple dish defeat me. It’s basically three uncomplicated, staple ingredients; what am I terrified of?

So I’m testing my skills and perseverance, and beginning a crazed, short-lived journey of five bread pudding recipes in two days. I’m honoring the memory of that first experience and foregoing any recipe that requires sauces or whipped topping; I’d like to stick to the source of my nostalgic taste buds. Hopefully this will end in a final reunion of my long-awaited pinnacle dessert and me. If not, well then, maybe I destroyed all memory of the thing along the way, and will forget why I was so obsessed in the first place.