Hitting the sweet spot

This was not it.

We had a lovely couple to stay in our B&B recently. They came with a small son aged 4.

At dinner that evening, S was in charge of the sweet — a treacle sponge pudding that I bigged up massively to the guests. “We’re making you the most delicious, traditional British dessert, the likes of which you will never have tasted before.” The little boy could hardly contain his excitement.

After the main course, I stayed to chat to the guests whilst waiting for the fabled pudding to appear. Things were unusually quiet in the kitchen.

After rather a long wait, I went to investigate and found a scene from bedlam: the pudding had been removed from the oven, but, inexplicably raw in the middle, had collapsed and was slowly oozing out over the table; S was frantically spooning the remaining syrup out from its centre, in the hopes that the outer edges would hold up.

They didn’t.

She took another plate and overturned the pudding as the recipe demanded. More sticky liquid escaped to the floor, G attempting to staunch the flow with his hat. To no avail. We were awash.

I squelched back to the guests and said: “There’s been a slight technical hitch.”

The little boy wailed: “Where’s my pudding?“

”Mostly on the floor”, I replied.

Everyone laughed nervously.

I took a tub of fresh cream into the kitchen, hoping we could salvage something. Or at least heavily disguise what was left. S’s shoulders were up by her ears but she was grimly determined. She gathered the more solid debris, patted them into shape and stuck them in the microwave.

“What shall I tell them?” I asked. She shrugged, beyond caring.

The tension rose a notch, we waited another five minutes and removed the pudding: it was perfect! What was left of it, that is.  

S later confessed she’d never made treacle pudding before.

And hopefully won’t ever again.

However, we got awesome reviews. We’re on a ROLL, folks.