…homemade Yorkshire pudding. My grandmother was born in Portsmouth England and I assume her mother taught her how to make it. At Sunday meals in my grandparents’ house on Bayou Desierd, her Yorkshire pudding would be carried out to the table, soft, bulging and trembling in its dish, followed by a platter bloody with rare, tender strips of roast beef. Long before Pink Floyd’s The Wall. my grandmother would say archly to the children at the table, “You’ve got to eat your pudding first! Then you can have your meat.”
Which was no chore. Her pudding was delectable and deadly. Along with steak, gumbo, bourbon and fried catfish, it likely contributed to my grandfather’s heart problems.
It also set me up for bitter disappointment when I traveled to England in my twenties, ordered Yorkshire Pudding, and was brought a chewy, muffin-shaped side dish plainly taken out of a freezer package.
Pam Troy 