(Image of a traditional Yorkshire pudding baked in a muffin pan by Shutterbug75 from Pixabay)
A real Yorkshire pudding isn’t just a side dish. It’s more traditionally served filled with gravy before the roast and may even be the main event.
Tony Jackman’s recipe for a giant breakfast-style Yorkshire pudding can be found here
You’re not going to visit your cousin in West Yorkshire and teach her how Yorkshire puddings are made. You will get the look. You don’t want the Look. It’s a Yorkshire tune, somewhere between disdain and pity, or affront and contempt. Or a mixture of it all, with a hint of sadness.
In Yorkshire, on meeting my cousins for the first time when I was 32, the strange South African son of the brother who left for sunny climates, I was served a big preening – so puffy it was would have said he needed to burp – Yorkshire pudding for my ‘tea’. It was filled with a rich dark brown sauce. There you go, no roast beef or potatoes in sight. The sauce was not called “juice”, nor was it made from a package.
My cousin Molly showed me how to make this great Yorkshire tradition. It was just the way my mom had taught me how to do them, years earlier. Once upon a time my mother made them in this same kitchen, in this same house, at Quaker Lane in Liversedge in West Riding County, in the garden of which now rest, in an unmarked grave, my mother’s ashes and dad. They had left for southern Africa and my mother had never returned. I had bothered to bring his ashes and his back to the house they had left from, even if that meant their remains would be very far from me. On the rare occasions that I can visit, it becomes a pilgrimage to their anonymous common grave. And every time I make Yorkshire Pudding, it is with a thumbs up to them and my Yorkshire roots.
When, as a boy in Southern Africa in the 1960s, we were taking an annual road trip around South Africa, we would stop at hotels for the night. Every now and then there was Yorkshire pudding on the menu, served with roast beef. What my dad would order, then fold his arms and watch the kitchen door, waiting for his meal to be out. And look at her plate, arms still crossed, then say, while my mom and I tried not to laugh, “Bar shots!” Check it out! », A flash of disdain, pity, affront, contempt and grief crossed his face all at once, and gestured to the hapless waiter, who would be berated for his utter lack of understanding, whatever it was. , the way a good Yorkshire pudding should be made. “Bar shots!” Is a Yorkshire cry of dissatisfaction mixed with derision, much louder than just ‘good grief’; more like Dorothy Parker “What the hell cool is this?”.
I don’t even remember being served a proper Yorkshire pudding once, without any humility, in any hotel, and over time I became equally arrogant towards dining rooms or restaurants that claimed offering it without clearly understanding that a Yorkshire pudding is not a tasty, flat, yellowish cream served in small squares.
Don’t serve your Yorkshire pudding to a real Yorkshireman. It will be wrong. DM / TGIFood
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This notice was published: 2021-06-11 06:24:42