The Pudding Thieves of Bamboo
It’s pudding o’clock.
My grandmother’s kitchen in Bamboo didn’t have a clock, but we knew what time it was by the smell. When sweet potato pudding hit the oven on a cool Saturday evening, that was the signal. You could be playing outside, half asleep on the floor, or tying out the goats, but once that scent crept upstairs or down the hallway, every grandchild found their way to the kitchen door, all eleven of us. She baked it for church; that was the rule, but we always broke it before Sunday came.
It always started with my brother; he was the brave one.
We didn’t even know he had been sneaking pieces until one day, when we were about eight or nine, we caught him coming back upstairs with crumbs on his shirt and a guilty smile on his face. After that, it became tradition.
As soon as Grandma stepped out of the kitchen, he’d tiptoe downstairs and go straight to the counter, lift the towel gently, pinch off the pudding’s corner, quick like a mouse, and hurry back upstairs. When he was safely back and had checked his surroundings, he’d give us that silent nod, the signal that it was safe. After that, it was chaos. We dashed into the kitchen one by one, heading straight to the counter, dipping our fingers into the soft, hot pudding, and tucking pieces into our shirts to cool them down. The bottom of our shirts became bowls. The pudding would steam against our stomachs as we sat on the floor upstairs, eating slowly but quickly and quietly, like we were handling treasure.
The taste was magical.
It didn’t matter if it was July or November, it always tasted like Christmas, my favourite time of the year.
The brown sugar clung to the sides like melted caramel, the grated sweet potato melted on your tongue like spiced butter, and the raisins, Oh God, the raisins, were soaked just enough to pop in your mouth like sweet jewels. She never used a measuring cup, only her eyes, and yet it came out perfect every single time: sweet, rich, warm, like how the house felt when it was all of us together, making too much noise and not wanting to be anywhere else.
There was always a little burnt edge at the bottom, the kind you had to scrape with a spoon, and we would fight over it like it was gold. We knew it was for our brethren at church, but somehow, we convinced ourselves that God would understand and forgive us. We never took much, just enough to remember what love tasted and felt like. And then, without fail, we’d hear her fine, soft voice from the kitchen: “A who pinch off di pudding?” The room would go silent, but we’d be chewing.
My grandmother would come and ask my brother, but he would always pretend to be shocked, just like the rest of us, with the evidence showing on his shirt. She would just laugh and go back downstairs.
Now that she’s gone, I’ve tasted a lot of puddings, but none compares to hers.
None that makes my heart melt and my mouth feel like I’m smiling from inside.
None that carry the weight of laughter, fear of being caught, sticky fingers, and shirts spotted with warm pudding grease.
The taste was more than a dessert.
It was all of us as a family in one place, one moment, one love. Some people say you can’t eat memories, but every time I close my eyes and think of the cool Saturday evenings in Bamboo, pudding steaming on the counter, and my brother giving us the signal, I know that’s a lie. Because in those stolen pieces, we tasted everything she gave us: sweetness, memory, and love.