I Remember Nothing [34]
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “I just got an e-mail from Priscilla in England saying that she’s not making dessert. Instead, Walter has gone to London and bought mince pies. He’s bringing them to New York. I hate mince pies. I absolutely hate them. Didn’t you once make a mince pie that no one ate?”
“It was a raisin pie,” I said. “And I liked it.”
“Mince pies!” Phoebe said. “Who’s going to eat mince pies?”
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“I’ve already done it,” Phoebe said. “I e-mailed her back and told her the mince pies were out of the question and that she should order a Yule log and a coconut cake from Eli’s and just have them delivered to me. Mince pies. Really.”
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “I think we must be talking about the cruelest woman on the planet.”
“Who?” Phoebe said.
“You,” I said. “Why am I not doing the desserts? I liked doing desserts. Last year my peppermint pie was a huge hit.”
“I remember that pie,” Phoebe said.
“This year I ordered cherries from Wisconsin,” I said. “The shipping alone cost fifty-two dollars.”
“If you want to bring dessert, bring dessert,” said Phoebe.
“But we don’t need dessert because there are mince pies and a Yule log—”
“And a coconut cake,” said Phoebe. “We’ve got to have a coconut cake. But you can bring anything else you want.”
I hung up the phone. I was reeling. To make matters worse, I’d already gone out and bought four pints of peppermint stick ice cream for the peppermint pie I was now not going to make unless I wanted to prove that I was the all-time world champion in the can’t-take-a-hint department of life. I stood there, missing Ruthie desperately. If she were alive, none of this would ever have happened. She was the glue, she was the thing that gave us the illusion that we were a family, she was the mother who loved us all so much that we loved one another, she was the spirit of Christmas. Now we were a group of raging siblings; her death had released us all to be the worst possible versions of ourselves.
I went to my computer and pulled up the pictures from the last Christmas we’d all been together. There we were, so happy, crowded together, overlapping. There was Ruthie. She had the most beautiful smile.
The next day, Walter called. He’d just arrived in New York with fourteen mince pies, and he was bringing them to Christmas dinner come hell or high water. “I love mince pie,” he said. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without mince pie.”
I know how he feels.
Ruthie’s Bread and Butter Pudding
5 large eggs
4 egg yolks
1 cup granulated sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
1 quart whole milk
1 cup heavy cream, plus 1 cup for serving
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Twelve ½-inch-thick slices brioche, crusts removed, buttered generously on one side
½ cup confectioners’ sugar
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a shallow two-quart baking dish.
Gently beat the eggs, egg yolks, granulated sugar, and salt until thoroughly blended.
Scald the milk and cream in a saucepan over high heat. Don’t boil. When you tip the pan and the mixture spits or makes a sizzling noise, remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla extract. STIR GENTLY, don’t beat, into the egg mixture until blended.
Overlap the bread, butter side up, in the prepared baking dish and pour the egg mixture over the bread. Set in a larger pan with enough hot water to come halfway up the side of the dish. Bake for about 45 minutes, or until the bread is golden-brown and a sharp knife inserted in the middle comes out clean. The bread should be golden and the pudding puffed up. This can be done early in the day. Do not chill.
Before serving, sprinkle with confectioners’ sugar and place under the broiler. Don’t walk away; this takes only a minute or so. Or you can use one of those crème brûlée gadgets to brown the sugar.
Serve with a pitcher of heavy cream.
The D Word
The most important thing about me, for quite a long chunk of my life, was that I was divorced. Even after I was no longer divorced but remarried, this was true. I have now been married to my third husband