A guest at our restaurant recently told me about her mother’s seasonal side hustle, though no one would have dared call it that out loud: in the weeks before Christmas, she became a quiet merchant of puddings. The proper kind of pudding, too: all dense but not leaden, heavy with prunes and warm with careful spicing.
As December crept in, forgotten cousins and semi-estranged uncles seemed to find reasons to drop by her place. She never advertised the fact, of course, but everyone knew that if you came bearing even a modest offering, you might just leave with a pudding wrapped in waxed paper and still warm with possibility. The exchanges were subtle. One neighbour would “pop by for coffee” and just happen to bring two dozen mince pies; a friend would promise to collect the Christmas turkey from the butcher and bring it round, saving this lady the schlep across town. Nothing was said, no ledger kept, but the pudding always travelled in the right direction.
