Page 37 of Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

Chapter 16

GRANDMAS AND GINGER PUDDINGS

Rachel felt like dashing across the landing right away to wake Jill up and see what she thought of the idea, but she couldn’t disturb the house, not at this hour, and risk waking Maisy before school. So, she sat up in bed for a while planning, then tiptoed across to the dressing table where she grabbed her laptop, took it back to her duvet zone, and started researching grants for farms and rural projects, saving any important links and information.

There must be other people who had converted barns into tearooms, so she tap-tapped away and a new search followed on diversification in farming. What were the pitfalls, the problems, the gains? By five-thirty she felt shattered, yet buzzing too, with a headful of dreams, and plans for their barn, to consider further. Finally, she laid down her laptop, curled herself under the covers and slept until her alarm went off at seven, dreaming of puddings and sunny days on the farm and happy-ever-afters.

After Maisy was away to school, and with the cattle and sheep checked for the morning, Rachel came back to the house to find Jill humming away in the kitchen measuring out flour, with a line-up of ingredients beside her.

‘Are there any more fresh eggs, Rachel love? Would you mind checking for me? With all this baking I’m doing we’re getting through our supplies fast. The hens won’t be able to keep up soon.’

‘Yes, of course, I’ll nip back out. Ooh, what are you making this time?’ Rachel peered over her mum’s shoulder into the mixing bowl.

‘I’m trying out a ginger pudding. The rhubarb’s nearly ready in the garden too, so I thought I might serve it with some stewed rhubarb and a blob of cream.’

‘Sounds delicious. Right, I’ll get cracking then and fetch some eggs.’ Rachel smiled at her own pun and took up the wicker basket used for egg collecting which sat by the porch door.

They had a dozen or so hens and one cockerel; they were mostly the bronze-feathered Rhode Island Red type – known to be good layers. They lived free range around the farm during the day, and were put back into their hen house at night (to keep them safe from any foxes), and produced the most golden-orange-yolked eggs, with a gorgeous flavour. Rachel walked across the yard and checked inside the hen house first, gathering nine eggs from the soft straw beds, but invariably there were several more eggs to be found in the nearby hedgerow and in the verge to the side of the old barn – the hens had their favourite laying places.

Back inside soon after, Mum broke the eggs into the mixture and set her trusted Magimix away. The smell of ginger and soft brown sugar was soon fragrant in the air, even more so twenty minutes later when the mixture had started to steam in a large pan on the hob.

‘This one’s a bit different. You steam it the old-fashioned way in a pudding basin.’

‘I think it’s going to be a hit already,’ Rachel said with a smile.

‘My own mother used to make this years ago. I haven’t made it in ages. Hmmn, just the smell brings back memories.’

Granny Isabel, Jill’s mother, had lived in a village in the Scottish Borders about a half hour drive away. She was warm and friendly, with a wicked sense of humour, white curls, and striking green eyes that Jill always said Rachel had inherited. They used to visit often when Rachel was a child, happy memories of walks and play in the country hills near the house, and she always put on a wonderful Sunday afternoon tea with some kind of gorgeous pudding or two, right up until the old lady died nine years ago.

Puddings had been a part of their shared past.

‘Yes, it’s funny how food can do that,’ Rachel commented. ‘Even down to the smells here in the kitchen. They can take you back to another time.’ Right now, she had a feeling of comfort and warmth, memories of traybakes and cakes, soups and puddings, of coming in from helping her dad on the farm, wet through and cold, to something hot and delicious to eat.

Memories of her other granny flooded in now too; Granny Ruth, her dad’s mother, now eighty-one, and Rachel’s last surviving grandparent. She used to be here in this very kitchen baking when Rachel was a little girl, back when the farmhouse was still Granny and Granda’s. Granda had sadly passed away a few years ago, and Ruth still lived in their cottage on the edge of Kirkton village, where they had been since passing on the farmhouse to the next generation.

Ruth particularly loved to spend time with Maisy and hear all about her activities and about life on the farm. It was evident she found it harder to visit since Dad’s death, but it didn’t stop her coming. She was a good baker too, despite the arthritis in her fingers, and there was often a crumble or a slice of homemade cake to be found in the larder at her cottage.

Rachel popped the kettle on as Jill cleared the surfaces and began to wash up. ‘Tea?’

‘Sounds good, thanks, love.’

Rachel knew this was the ideal time to mention last night’s big idea. She poured hot water into the teapot and placed it along with two mugs on the mat at the centre of the pine table, giving it time to brew.

‘Right, I’d better keep an eye on the clock. It’ll take around two hours to steam.’ Jill took up a seat. ‘You never know, if it’s a good one we could introduce some of these to the Deli too.’

‘Well, yes, let’s definitely look to do that … Look Mum.’ Rachel had to steel herself. ‘I’ve been thinking. The baking you’re doing is brilliant and I’m so happy you’re on board with it all and trying out new recipes. Really, it’s great.’

‘Well, I have to admit, after my initial concerns, I’m enjoying it. Ooh, and Brenda said she had a lady in yesterday who took two of each flavour to take home with her to Edinburgh, after trying a sticky toffee on her holidays here.’

‘Well, that’s just fabulous. But …’

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re about to burst my bubble?’

‘I’m not, honestly. It’s just I kind of think we need to blow the balloon up a whole lot bigger.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Well yes, the puddings for sale at the Deli are doing well and that’s great. But even if we sell, say, twenty a week, hopefully thirty, and then get a new outlet thereafter, by the time they take their cut, and with all our costs, we’re still not making much of a profit to really help the farm out.’