When their mother asked them to make her famous apple pudding for Sunday lunch, sisters Liz and Helen demanded a written recipe.
“You’ve watched me make it for forty years,” their mother said.
“We’ve watched you put things in a bowl,” Liz replied. “That’s different.”
Their mother wrote on the back of an envelope: flour, butter, apples, sugar, milk. Beside the flour she put “two cups.”
“What size cup?” Helen asked.
“The blue one.”
Liz opened a cupboard containing seven blue cups.
“The one with the handle.”
They sent their mother into the sitting room with a newspaper and agreed not to bother her again. Helen found an old chipped mug that seemed likely. Liz weighed its contents so they could produce a proper recipe afterward.
“How much sugar?”
“It says a little.”
“How little?”
“Less than the flour, presumably.”
They chose an amount and made a note. Helen peeled apples. Liz mixed the topping. They were getting along beautifully until Helen said the mixture looked too dry. Liz added milk. Helen said it now looked wet. Liz pointed out that this was the expected consequence.
Their father wandered in, sniffed the bowl, and said it needed cinnamon.
“It’s not on the recipe,” Liz said.
“Your mother always puts cinnamon in.”
Their mother called from the next room, “Only when we have any.”
They added cinnamon. Their father left and returned with a lemon.
“Sometimes she uses this.”
“Does she put it in the pudding?”
“No idea. I just see it on the counter.”
Helen moved the lemon out of reach.
Their father returned a third time, carrying the chipped mug.
“That’s the cup she uses,” he said.
“We’ve already used it.”
“Good. I thought I’d better check.”
He put it down in the exact place they’d found it and went to sit by the oven. Helen wrote “Dad’s approved cup” in the margin of their notes.
The recipe said to bake until ready. The sisters agreed on forty minutes, then disagreed about the oven temperature. Their mother called that the middle shelf was best. Liz said shelves were not temperatures. Their mother turned a page of her newspaper.
At thirty minutes, the topping looked pale. At forty, it looked golden. At forty-five, their father said it smelled done. Helen took it out.
They had produced a handsome pudding, a page of exact measurements, and a small argument over who had chosen the correct cup. Liz typed the final version into her phone and gave it a title: Mum’s Apple Pudding, Definitive Recipe.
At lunch, their mother took a spoonful. She chewed thoughtfully.
“Well?” Helen asked.
“Very nice.”
“Like yours?”
“Very nice.”
Their father took a bite and said he could tell the difference. Both sisters turned to him. He suddenly became interested in pouring custard.
“What difference?” Liz asked.
“Well, your mother’s has a certain…”
“A certain what?”
He took another spoonful. Helen pushed the custard jug away so he couldn’t hide behind it.
Their mother beckoned Liz into the kitchen.
“Tell him he helped.”
“He didn’t.”
“He checked the cup.”
Liz looked at her mother. Her mother looked at the forty-year-old chipped mug and raised an eyebrow.
They returned to the table. Helen was still asking their father what was missing.
“Actually,” Liz said, “we ought to thank Dad. We weren’t certain about the cup until he checked it.”
Their father sat up.
“And the cinnamon,” he said.
“Yes,” Helen said slowly. “And the cinnamon.”
He took another generous spoonful. This time he closed his eyes.
“Now that,” he said, “is exactly how your mother makes it.”
Their mother passed the custard. Liz reached for her phone and added one final ingredient.
Helen leaned over. “What are you writing?”
“Let Dad think it was his idea.”