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 street corners with their tightly wrapped baskets or pots filled with hot, freshly made Black Pudding to satisfy their loyal and hungry customers.
A few readers of this column claim that Miss Betty’s Black Pudding of the 1950s and early 60s remains the best in the history of then British Guiana and an independent Guyana. “Miss Betty sold her Black Pudding on the south side of Norton Street between Camp and John streets. She had a line each Saturday past 1 pm that ran from her back yard on to Norton Street, west towards Camp Street that continued south towards Princes Street,” reports C A Griffith. Observer (another reader) points out, “In her latter years, Miss Betty moved her expanded Black Pudding business to the south side of Regent Road, Bourda, between Light and Cummings streets.” Such are the details that many recall when they think of Black Pudding.
So loyal and faithful are lovers of Black Pudding that we would travel far and arrive early. If it was to be purchased from a favourite and well-known roadside vendor, one arrived early enough to get a good place in line. After all, there was a particular window of time to get the Black Pudding, arrive too late and end up at the back of the line and there was a high probability that the Black Pudding could be sold out before you get to the head of the line. On the other hand, if you were buying directly from the cook’s home, you would arrive before the Black Pudding was done cooking because for many of us, it was an opportunity to watch the process – the masters at work as they busied themselves about their kitchens. It is always a quiet time. You knew without being told that you could not talk or disturb the cook. And remember what I told you last week about talking and causing the Black Pudding to burst!
People—children and adults alike—would turn up with their bowls, containers and Pyrex waiting patiently at the backdoor for the Black Pudding to be done. Some of the adults present would have ordered in advance and come in person to collect. All the children gathered, our parents or elders would have already called ahead and ordered the amount of Black Pudding they wanted, so were just there as the delivery people. I often turned up at Miss Kathleen’s completely unaware as to how much (dollar value) Black Pudding was being bought, she would just ask for the Pyrex and I’d hand it over to her. I was not the only one; my friends had the same experience. Funny, we too knew instinctively when Saturday afternoon arrived, regardless of how engrossed we were in whatever games we were playing, that at a certain time we had to go indoors to collect our containers and dishes, wrapped in large cotton kitchen towels, secured in bags with handles to go to Miss Kathleen’s house to get the Black Pudding. My auntie Betty, God bless her, always gave me an extra piece of Black Pudding because I went and stood dutifully and patiently to get her Black Pudding.
The making, selling and buying of Black Pudding is a way of life. It is at once a ritual and a tradition. It is something we engage in that connects us. We don’t go buying Black Pudding from just anyone; we have our own special person that we buy from. It is a loyalty and trust that has built up over the years. It is an unspoken commitment to each other – you keep making and I’ll keep buying. When the day comes that the Black Pudding lady gives up her apron, whether by choice or being called home, there is a void that cannot be easily filled. Some of us altogether give up eating Black Pudding because none else can compare. Others are lucky enough to find new friends and strike up a relationship. There are others that wander far and wide in search of something that comes close to what we have lost.
In my lifetime I have lost 3 exceptional Black Pudding-making friends. 2 have been called home and one no longer lives in Guyana. I’m not giving up hope though, one day, again, I’ll find my Black Pudding lady.
Cynthia
Cynthia@tasteslikehome.org
www.tasteslikehome.org
