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My mother never made rice pudding. This, of course, could be a lie, but it may also be true. It feels true to me. She also never made bread pudding—which suited me fine. The sliminess of pieces of Wonder Bread in bread pudding echoed the sliminess of Wonder Bread in the Thanksgiving turkey stuffing. I didn't like either one.
When my children were small, I made rice pudding often. If you use milk instead of cream, and not too much sugar, rice pudding is a relatively healthy dessert.
Ernest and Abigail had their daughter baptized to please Ernest's Catholic parents; and I, a lapsed Catholic, was the token godmother for this token baptism. I am ashamed to confess that I have long since forgotten the child's name.
The christening was followed by a classic French baptismal celebration. Both Ernest and Abigail had doctorates in French literature, and they were frank Francophiles.
The christening brunch, for twenty guests, took place at their house in
Ernest also cooked the meal for the celebration. I don't remember what he served for this spring-time brunch, but I know it was elegant, simple, and expensive. And for dessert, he made riz a l'imperatrice, the apotheosis of rice pudding. Julia's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1, was all the rage among junior faculty members, and Ernest used Julia's recipe. It is to rice pudding what the Taj Mahal is to a sod house on the Prairies. It is complicated and time-consuming to make and is studded with candied fruit and made voluminous with whipped cream. Before serving it, Ernest turned it out onto a beautiful antique porcelain platter and decorated it with candied violets and fruits.
I've never forgotten it, never made it myself, and never eaten it since. Ernest's was enough for a lifetime.
Ernest was a wonderful, doting father who took excellent care of baby Sophie. Yes, perhaps she was a Sophie. Abigail was left, as she often was in that ménage, with very little to do. Ernest cooked, decorated, entertained, and cared for Sophie. Abigail breast-fed the baby for over a year—probably because this was the only thing she did that Ernest couldn't do better.
We left town the following year on our own perilous journey into life. Ernest and Abigail became part of my past, and Sophie, if that is her name, is now in her early forties and has had to navigate the rapids of life without the guidance of her missing godmother.
Now where was I? Rice pudding.
There are so many recipes for rice pudding. I make a quick one from leftover rice, but the best ones are made by simmering a small amount of raw rice for several hours in sweetened milk, so that the rice is very, very soft and swollen. When I crave rice pudding, however, I usually want an instant gratification of my desire. So I add leftover cooked rice to milk, put in a little sugar and a few raisins, and cook it until I say it's finished, at which point I might add some vanilla. Then I put my rice pudding into a dish and eat it while I sit alone in a friendly room with my feet up and a book on my lap. No matter what ails me, rice pudding is bound to make me feel better.
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