Hi Everyone, This week’s column concludes the 2-part look at Black Pudding.
It’s late Saturday afternoon. The sun is still high in the sky but it is now what is known as the golden hour, the time of the afternoon when the sun washes everything with a comforting glow of golden hue. Miss Kathleen’s kitchen door is wide open; the heat from the cauldron-like pots that sit on the stove is no match for the afternoon warmth. Silence. The only thing that can be heard is the sound of the blood-seasoned rice being pumped into the cow runners/casings through a funnel. Miss Kathleen’s slender and well-toned arm moves rapidly, up and down as she forces the rice through the hole of a funnel with the handle of a wooden spoon. She’s making Black Pudding.
Growing up, I never knew about buying Black Pudding from an established eatery. It was always bought directly from someone’s home, their kitchen to be precise, after waiting patiently at the back door (which was often the kitchen door). Today that still obtains. In addition to buying directly from one’s home, women could be spotted at certain
