The Last Package Always Keeps Me Guessing

Even before the presents have been opened on Christmas morning, my thoughts are on the evening meal. In my family, Christmas dinner is a holiday feast featuring the usual roast turkey, Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes and creamed onions. Dessert is where we stand apart. Ours is a retro steamed walnut pumpkin pudding that, to me, is a gift all its own.

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A family tradition started and tweaked by my grandmother in the mid-1960s, making this showstopper pudding never gets old. Far from the jiggly custards that might come to mind, this is an elegant, golden cake with deep flavors of brown sugar and ginger. When it turns out right -- a matter of some suspense -- the rich, spicy finale trumps standard pies and tarts.

It is easy enough to put together; the one-bowl batter goes straight into a well-buttered tin pudding mold. Molds are not widely available these days, but I had no trouble finding an old one with a scalloped top on eBay last year. The tin is wrapped like a present in several layers of wax paper and secured with kitchen twine as it steams for two hours, its bottom half submerged in continuously boiling water.

That is where the fun starts. Theoretically, those two hours should leave time to prepare the rest of the dinner, socialize or go play with new toys. For me, it's two hours of worrying and hovering over the stove, hoping that the pudding will morph into its properly dense and moist state.

No sooner is the pudding tin set in the pot than the second-guessing begins: Did I wrap the mold in enough layers of wax paper to keep water from seeping in? Later on, I check and check back again: Is there enough water? As with most baked treats, there is precision in the process. If the mold isn't watertight, extra moisture can invade the batter and create a soggy mess. If the hot-water bath boils away, the pudding can burn and turn into a dry lump, the culinary equivalent of coal in one's stocking. Let's just say both situations have provided learning opportunities for me.

So I have developed a system. About 30 minutes before the pudding finishes, I serve dinner. The meal is always enjoyable, but my focus is never far from the stovetop. And still, I never know whether my pudding is a success until it slides out of its container.

My grandmother used to unmold it with a flourish in front of her guests by inverting a cake stand over the base of the tin, then quickly turning both over to reveal a perfectly seated pudding. I, however, am too nervous for such spectacle. I prefer to unmold any potential defeat in the kitchen and recoup with a backup plan of pie.

It might be stretching the truth to say that an imperfect pudding can ruin Christmas, but an excellent outcome is like getting one last gift: my pumpkin version of a yuletide figgy pudding, with generous dollops of festive, brandied whipped cream.

An occasional series in which staff members share a recipe we turn to time and time again.