Cornmeal thickened in smoked wood molasses,
A black-eyed honeyed brown heap of sassiness.
The Indian pudding steamed hot as it cooled,
Patient kids steamed cool at table and drooled.
Then the utter richness of the exotic smells,
Promised more than even the devil Satan tells.
The sweet concoction simmered on black-red coals,
Frothing into foamy bubbles as at the edge of shoals.
The double-pot mumbled and murmured at will,
How I remember the sweet anticipation of it all still.
Then, the heavenly delight poured forth in lumpy waves,
Into desert cups held up in pudgy hands as desire craves.
Our loving mother extended her hand to signal wait,
Our lolling tongues hanging low ready for the bait.
She sprinkled the darkened crust with the light of stars,
Fine sugar shone white on the delight now to be ours.
Indian pudding an autumn desert to warm frosted hearts,
As we head into winter with the chill it always imparts.
A very image and patient depiction of what we often forget as we get older; the excitement of a mother's cooking craft and the appetites of youth. Lovely.
In India, we make a different variety of it, depending on the region/stae it could be rice flour,wheat,gram flour, milk,butter and dry fruits for taste, sweetened with sugar or jaggery still.... and tell me why we all remember our childhood .. how we miss.... in spite of all we have in the present.... J K roseline
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Rebecca
Love ya!
Jane