Just Figgy

When most Americans think of pudding, we think of a creamy, custardy sweet advertised by Bill Cosby. In British vernacular, I’m pretty sure pudding is just another word for dessert. And figgy pudding is just another term for disgusting fruitcake from hell.

Every year our office does a bake sale fundraiser, and every year my coworker jokes that if I made a figgy pudding, he’d buy it. The joke has gone so far that my office nickname is Figgina, often shortened to just “Figgy”.

This year, I am actually making a figgy pudding. And if my coworker knows what’s good for him, he’ll shell out a pretty penny for it, because it has been the biggest pain in my ass.

Until today, I had never even seen a fig. By the time I finally found a store that sold figs, it was after 8 so the local liquor stores were closed. Long story short, my figs that are supposed to be soaking overnight in Grand Marnier are soaking in vanilla rum instead. The recipe sounds pretty vile anyway, so I don’t think it will matter much.

As you’ll note in the recipe, I can’t just throw this monstrosity in a pan to bake. I had to buy a fluted pudding pan and a roaster to steam the damn thing.

All for something that will probably come out tasting absolutely vomitrocious.

Who out there actually likes figgy pudding? If you or someone you know is a figgy pudding fanatic, please send me a brief essay expounding the joys of figgy pudding. Be sure to include your favorite figgified recipe.

Then, seek professional help.

Thank you for your assistance.