A Year in the Making

From my mum's household comes the age-old tradition of making a Christmas pudding in December but it was never for this year—oh no, this year's pudding was in the back of the cupboard with 12 extra shots of rum, poitín, whiskey, any strong alcohol really would do, poured over it, one for every month it's been in there.

I can still see them now—Granny and Mum standing side by side in the cramped little kitchen on Dromard Rd, the air thick with the scent of spice, citrus, and something warm that felt like Christmas itself. The small blue and white table was covered in flour and smears of butter, and bags of ingredients were dotted about.

I was too young to do much more than watch, perched on the edge of a chair, but I knew the routine by heart. The brown sugar, the peel, the flour, the mixed spice, all folded together with a generous splash of stout and a pour of whiskey—though not too much.

And then, the most important part: the stirring.

"Good and slow now," Granny would say as Mum took over, working the batter until it was dark, sticky, and full of promise. When it was finally ready, they poured it into the basin, wrapping it up in layers of muslin before setting it to steam for hours on the stovetop. The kitchen windows fogged up, the scent curling into every corner of the house, seeping into our clothes, into our very bones.

And then, it was hidden away—not for a week, not for a month, but for a whole year.

That was the magic of Granny Duggan's pudding.

Once a month, without fail, she'd pull it from its resting place in the pantry, unwrap it with careful hands, and pour a good measure of whatever was on hand over the top—a shot of whiskey one month, a glug of rum the next. Sometimes poitín, if someone had dropped off a bottle.

"It doesn't matter what it is," Granny would say with a wink, letting the liquid soak in before wrapping it up again. As long as it keeps it moist."

By the time Christmas rolled around, that pudding had soaked up a year's worth of love and spirits, turning dark, dense, and rich with time. On Christmas night, the grand finale—one last dousing of whiskey before Granny struck a match and set it alight. The blue flames flickered and danced in the dim light, reflected in our wide eyes.

And as we all tucked in, I could taste it all—the spice, the fruit, the warmth of the fire, the hands that had stirred it, the stories poured into it, month after month. A pudding wasn't just a pudding in our house. It was a history. A tradition. A memory in the making.

And now, all these years later, I smile every time I stand in my own kitchen, unwrapping a basin wrapped in muslin, bottle in hand. Because some traditions—like a well-fed pudding—are meant to last forever.