When scattered flurries churn into snow squalls, we know winter is here. Even though the calendar still shows autumn, the first snowfall brings the unofficial start to winter. Thoughts of hot chocolate in front of the fire or reading a book while buried under a blanket start to take hold. Even though my patience with winter dwindles by mid-January, there is something inspiring about the first snow fall in New England.
On days like today, I love my morning commute. Not a cloud in the sky and sunshine everywhere. I took a little detour to one of my favorite spots, the Corbin covered bridge in Newport, NH. While not a fan of the cold, I was reminded today of why I live here!
Growing up in New Hampshire, we always had Indian Pudding at Thanksgiving. I took this delicacy for granted until I moved to other areas of the country where the dish was virtually unknown. Best described as a cross between bread pudding and pumpkin pie, it is perfect served warm with a side of natural vanilla bean ice cream.
Indian Pudding first appeared in New England during the 17th century. It grew in popularity and became a Thanksgiving staple. However, Indian Pudding seems to be fading from memory, even in our region. I have enclosed our family recipe below. If you are looking for a new treat, give it a whirl!
Classic Indian Pudding
5 Cups Whole Milk (yes, whole milk as skim and fat free do not work)
½ cup Yellow Corn Meal
½ cup Sugar
½ Cup Molasses
¼ Cup Butter
1 Teaspoon Salt
1 Teaspoon Pumpkin Pie Spice (If unavailable, mix ½ tsp cinnamon, ½ tsp ginger, and ½ teaspoon nutmeg)
Preheat Oven to 350. Combine 2 cups milk with corn meal, sugar, molasses, butter, salt, and spice in heavy sauce pan. Heat on medium heat until bubbly, stirring occasionally. Simmer for 5 minutes or until thickened. Pour into buttered baking dish (8 cup dish). Stir in 2 more cups milk. Bake for one hour. Stir in remaining one cup milk and back for approximately 1-2 hours or until set (jiggly, but still soft)
Serve with Natural Vanilla Bean Ice Cream
I have always been fascinated by Emily Dickinson. Called a recluse and eccentric, she rarely left her house and most of her poems remained hidden until after her death. If not for her family, the brilliance she created would have disappeared. While her works were saved, I wonder how many other creative treasures are lost. For all the “closet writers” out there afraid to show their work, remember Emily Dickinson.
Here is my favorite selection of her works.
I can wade grief,
whole pools of it, –
I’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip – drunken