By Christmas Eve, and the kitchen is producing the feast — the full feast, the covenant feast, she-crab soup and ham and collard greens and everything that Mama made and that I now make and that the cookbook preserves. The kitchen smells like the parsonage. The kitchen always smells like the parsonage at Christmas, because the recipes are the same and the smells are the recipes and the recipes are Mama, and Mama is the smell, and the smell is the Christmas.
Christmas Day: six at the table — Naomi, Robert, James, Elise, Carrie, and Joy (in a Santa hat, the tradition she will never abandon). Six people around the antique dining table that has held every Christmas dinner for twenty-six years and that holds this one with the same quiet solidity, the same scarred surface, the same watermark where Carrie left her glass in 2015.
I blessed the food. My words. My voice. "For this food, made from recipes that a woman named Carolyn Simmons taught me in a kitchen in Beaufort. For this family, gathered here. For the book that carries her forward. For the woman who is not at this table but who is in every dish on it. We give thanks."
The blessing was the Christmas. The Christmas was the blessing. And the table held it all: the food and the family and the absence and the presence and the book on the counter and the woman in the memory and the daughter who wrote the book and the family who eats the food and the food that carries the woman forward, one Christmas at a time, one meal at a time, one blessing at a time.
I made the full Christmas dinner. The same. Always the same. The same is the love.
The blessing had already been said, the collard greens and ham had already done their work, and what I needed at the end of that table — at the end of that particular Christmas — was something that finished the meal the way Mama always finished it: quietly, sweetly, without fuss. Carolyn’s rice pudding was always the last thing on the Christmas table, the dish nobody talked about much but that everyone reached for, the one that said we are done, we are full, we are together. I made it the same way I always make it, from the book, the same always the same, because that is what love looks like on a plate.
Grandma’s Rice Pudding
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 6
Ingredients
- 3/4 cup long-grain white rice
- 1 1/2 cups water
- 4 cups whole milk
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 2 eggs, lightly beaten
- 1/2 cup heavy cream
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon, plus more for serving
- 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 cup raisins (optional)
Instructions
- Cook the rice. Combine the rice and water in a medium heavy-bottomed saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to low, cover, and simmer for 15 minutes until water is absorbed.
- Add the milk. Pour the milk into the cooked rice and stir to combine. Increase heat to medium and cook, stirring frequently, for about 20 minutes until the mixture thickens and the rice is very tender.
- Temper the eggs. In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, heavy cream, and sugar. Slowly ladle about 1/2 cup of the hot rice mixture into the egg mixture, whisking constantly to temper it, then pour the egg mixture back into the saucepan.
- Finish the pudding. Reduce heat to low and stir in the vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. If using raisins, add them now. Cook for an additional 5 minutes, stirring constantly, until the pudding is thick and creamy. Do not allow it to boil.
- Serve. Spoon into individual bowls or a serving dish. Dust with additional cinnamon before bringing to the table. Serve warm, or press a sheet of plastic wrap directly onto the surface and refrigerate for up to two days — it is just as good cold.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 310 | Protein: 8g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 44g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 160mg