By Late May, and the house is adjusting to the absence the way a body adjusts to a missing limb: slowly, with phantom sensations, with the particular disorientation of reaching for something that is no longer there. I reach for Mama every morning — not physically, but habitually, the habit of checking on her, the habit of listening for the humming, the habit of preparing the medications that are no longer needed and the meals that are no longer eaten and the care that is no longer required. The not-required is the rest. The rest is the grief. The grief is the adjustment.
I opened the guest bedroom door on a Sunday in late May. Three months had passed since Mama's death. The opening was not dramatic — I simply turned the handle, pushed the door, stood in the doorframe. The room was the same. Ruth had left it neat: the bed made, the nightstand clean, the pearl earrings in a small dish. I stood in the doorframe for five minutes. I did not enter. The standing was the opening. The opening was enough.
The cookbook page proofs arrived from Catherine Wells. The proofs are the book made physical — not published yet, not final, but real in the way that paper is real: held in the hands, turned by the fingers, read by the eyes. I sat at the desk and read the proofs from beginning to end, and the reading was the first time I read the book as a reader rather than a writer, and the reading was the shock of recognition: the book is Mama. The book is her voice and her recipes and her life and her daughter's love. The book is real.
I made collard greens — the dish I have made a hundred times, the dish that is Chapter Five, the dish that is patience and ham hock and the two hours of simmering that Mama taught me. The greens were for dinner, for Robert and me, and the dinner was the ordinary, and the ordinary was the life, and the life was continuing.
The collard greens simmered for two hours, the way Mama always insisted, and by the time Robert and I sat down the kitchen smelled like everything I have ever loved. We did not talk much — the ordinary dinner does not require much talking — but I had pulled out a bag of blueberries that morning without quite knowing why, and after the greens were eaten and the plates were cleared I made a bread pudding, because bread pudding is also patience, also warmth, also the kind of dish that asks nothing of you except that you wait. It felt like the right ending to a day that had already given me so much.
Blueberry Bread Pudding
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 6 cups day-old bread, cut into 1-inch cubes (French or brioche works well)
- 1 1/2 cups fresh or frozen blueberries
- 3 large eggs
- 2 cups whole milk
- 1/2 cup heavy cream
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus more for greasing
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- Powdered sugar, for serving (optional)
Instructions
- Preheat and prepare. Preheat your oven to 350°F. Lightly butter a 9x13-inch baking dish and set aside.
- Arrange the bread. Spread the bread cubes evenly in the prepared baking dish. Scatter the blueberries over and among the bread cubes.
- Make the custard. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, heavy cream, sugar, melted butter, vanilla extract, cinnamon, and salt until fully combined and smooth.
- Soak the bread. Pour the custard mixture evenly over the bread and blueberries. Press the bread down gently with the back of a spoon so every cube absorbs the custard. Let the dish rest for 10 minutes to soak.
- Bake. Bake uncovered for 40–45 minutes, until the top is golden and the custard is set in the center. A knife inserted in the middle should come out mostly clean.
- Rest and serve. Remove from the oven and let the pudding rest for 5–10 minutes before serving. Dust with powdered sugar if desired. Serve warm.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 310 | Protein: 8g | Fat: 12g | Carbs: 42g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 230mg