Yorkshire pudding is the bane of my existence. Every year for dinner on Christmas, accompanied by the traditional standing rib roast, I attempt to recreate the memory of hubby's grandmother's special dinner. Every year is a disaster, more or less. Sometimes part of it puffs. I think all of it puffed slightly once, then fell before I got it to the table. I consider myself a damn good cook, and I take this very personally. It doesn't help that the best Yorkshire pudding I've had was made by hubby's late father, a man who could barely boil water.
A good Canadian friend of Scots descent helped me out last year with a really great recipe. I tried to follow the instructions, really I did. As hubby often says when the food presentation fails, "It tasted good!" Fortunately, my gravy making skill overcomes my complete ineptitude when it comes to Yorkshire pudding.
Then my English neighbor invited me for tea on Friday, and I found myself surrounded by ladies who hail from the other side of the pond. I figured I had it made. I solicited their advice. Oven and pan hot, batter cold, rest it for at least an hour -- I am prepared! This year I shall prevail! Wait, did I just ask for cooking advice from a bunch of Brits, people from a land where the only edible food is Indian? How low have I sunk?!
As I began my preparations, I discovered that I'd neglected to buy milk and had to send hubby out into the snowy night... um... scratch that snowy night crap... into the sunny afternoon for a short walk to the convenience store. But I'm sure he'd have gladly braved a nor'easter for his damned Yorkshire pudding. How could I have forgotten to get milk? You don't think I did it unconsciously on purpose, do you?
Perhaps it was the pinch of additional angst, perhaps it was guilt for making hubby go out for the milk, perhaps we'll never know, but this year's pudding was, dare I say it, PERFECT! It puffed and browned and was absolutely loverly! Hallelujah!
Maybe next year we'll go out for Chinese.
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