More than the semolina, tapioca or rice pudding itself, it was the spoonful of jam I liked best. The adult in charge of the jar would land a blob of red in the middle of each bowl of white, and the jam would sink slightly and spread into a pink puddle. It wasn’t just at home that we had semolina with jam; we had it at school, too, and, like custard, there were no ambivalent kids: you either didn’t like it or you did. Years later, I would make myself semolina when I got home late, eat it while watching TV, then leave the pan to soak overnight.
In The Book Of Difficult Fruit, Kate Lebo notes: “Recipes are rituals that promise transformation.” It is a line that stuck in my head like a tune. It feels especially true in relation to recipes that involve thickening. Lebo also describes how recipes “blend the precision of an instruction manual with the faith of a spell and, no matter when they were written, occur in the present”. It is just you, a pan, a whisk, milk, water and fine semolina. The recipe is as confident as a head girl: it will thicken. But will it? I always have to stop myself throwing in another handful, to force myself to have faith. And, sure enough, it transforms.
