Valerie Lewis

I am an immigrant. I am also a convert to Judaism.

I grew up in southwest England and always delighted in Christmas with my family.  

Weeks before the holiday my mother would make her Christmas pudding.  She followed my grandmother’s recipe which included large amounts of raisins, currants, suet, eggs, and lots of spices, all well lubricated with brandy.  The mixture was then submerged in a pot of boiling water for six hours.

On Christmas Day itself, after the excitement of opening gifts in the morning, my brother and I were hustled upstairs to nap, ostensibly to prepare for the forthcoming late night.  When we descended later, in festive dress, the dining room had been transformed with the gleam of candles into a grotto of wonders, complete with mistletoe, holly, the best china, silverware, napkins, sparkling glasses and Christmas crackers.

The turkey we consumed was carved by my father and was accompanied by more of our favorites: Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, bread sauce, and turkey gravy.  Then we all helped clear those dishes, in preparation for the lights to be dimmed and my mother’s flaming pudding, crowned with holly leaves, to be borne in.  On our individually designed, hand-painted, Spode dessert plates, which I thought the most elegant in the world, we received a large slice of the luscious pudding, accompanied by an ample amount of whipped cream.  Oh, this was heaven!

These days the plates, now in my home in Chicago, do not serve Christmas pudding, far less heaven, but I proudly bring them out for dinner guests to taste my ‘tarte tintin.’