Do you like bits of toast with a vague cinnamon/ dairy combo atop? No? Well, you probably would not have liked my friend’s ‘bread and butter pudding’.*
“We don’t like raisins”, she said, speaking for herself and another friend whilst conveniently dodging the fact that dried fruit and/or peel is just about the only thing that makes bread and butter pudding a remotely appealing concept. Don’t like dried fruit? Then make a trifle, stat.
That said, even trifles fail when the ingredients of said afters are decanted into a container with a removable bottom. An oven-based dessert overflow is a brave and glorious mess; the pre-oven spillage of >80% of liquid ingredients is negligence to rival Serco or G4S.
A good guest in spite of all, I made great efforts to suggest personal enthusiasm towards my friend’s efforts, not least because I am relatively open to the idea of bits of toast with a vague cinnamon/ dairy combo atop.
“We don’t have any custard”, she said, speaking for herself and another friend whilst conveniently dodging the fact that even the perfect example of this dish cannot stand on its own one dish and needs to be allowed to swim.
A mid-meal supermarket trip later, we were back on track.
“We don’t usually heat up custard”, she said, speaking for herself and another friend whilst conveniently dodging the fact that nobody in the whole of fucking custard-acknowledging civilisation doesn’t heat custard intended as a pudding accompaniment.
I gave up, and just ate the thing.
All in all, this eating experience was a conundrum that Jonathan Creek in his prime would struggle with. There’s no way anyone would provide this ‘pudding’ with enough security clearance to escape from inverted commas.
*On legal advice, I have been told to add that fact that my friend did make a nice curry in advance of the described debacle.