There are puddings and there are puddings. Then, there are Christmas puddings. And, finally, there are the Christmas puddings created by a particular lady with whom I claim familial proximity. It’s no mean coincidence that she is dear to me. She is a great cook, is Harjyot Phoolka.
Heavy with fruits and nuts, moist with brandy and dark with age—though it is quite impossible to devour huge portions of it (believe me, I’ve tried), every morsel you sink your teeth into, is intended to ferry you through the festive season in high ‘spirits’. Show me someone who disagrees and I’ll show you a deprived soul. At the very least, a soul deprived of the lip-smacking, stupor-inducing delights that this lady conjures up—within a short span of three months and three hours.
This rich, steamed dessert has its origins in England and is tradition bound to appear on 
the table on Christmas day. Sometimes, lit after being doused with more brandy, it arrives in a vapour of blue flames. This ritual has a curious tale attached to it. Right up to the last but one century, Christmas Eve was spent playing a parlour game called Snap-dragon. A basinful of brandy-soaked raisins was set aflame and placed in the centre of a table. You were then meant to salvage the raisins from the basin and pop them into your mouth, even at the risk of being scorched. I’m guessing the winner would have to be the one with the maximum blisters!
No marks for why that particular festivity was shelved.
I am mighty glad, though, that my favourite Christmas practice is well-maintained till date—brandy butter. It is prepared with unsalted butter, brown sugar, spices and, as the name suggests, brandy. Just one spoonful of this molten glee over your castor sugar-sprinkled portion takes you on a ride only Santa Claus could have promised.
I’m told these puddings have amazing lasting 
properties, allowing people to relish this treat through to the following Christmas as well. I have no practical experience of this because each time that I have cajoled, coaxed, blackmailed, threatened or sweet-talked a pudding out of my aunt, it has lasted only long enough for me to be able to describe the experience. Not an instant longer.
Still, you don’t have to take my word for it, simply order your own at +91 9876706064.
In the meantime, here’s wishing you all a very Mmmmmerry Christmmmmmas! Also hoping you will excuse me for writing with my mouth full…. 
Puneetinder Kaur Sidhu, travel enthusiast and the author of Adrift: A junket junkie in Europe is the youngest of four siblings born into an aristocratic family of Punjab. Dogged in her resistance to conform, and with parental pressure easing sufficiently over the years, she had plenty of freedom of choice. And she chose travel.
She was born in Shimla, and spent her formative years at their home, Windsor Terrace, in Kasumpti while schooling at Convent of Jesus & Mary, Chelsea. The irrepressible wanderlust in her found her changing vocations midstream and she joined Singapore International Airlines to give wing to her passion. She has travelled extensively in Asia, North America, Australia, Europe, South Africa and SE Asia; simultaneously exploring the charms within India.
When she is not travelling, she is writing about it. Over the past decade or so, she has created an impressive writing repertoire for herself: as a columnist with Hindustan Times, as a book reviewer for The Tribune and as a contributor to travel magazines in India and overseas. Her work-in-progress, the documenting of colonial heritage along the Old Hindustan-Tibet Road, is an outcome of her long-standing romance with the Himalayas.
