And even when the liquid finally became thick and silky, the waiting had only just begun. Dad would pour the contents of the saucepan into several green-rimmed Corelle bowls and pop them into the refrigerator to set.
“Are they done yet?” we would ask…repeatedly.
He never told us that we couldn’t eat the pudding early, but he made it clear that patience would be rewarded. Eat it too soon, he warned, and it would be tepid and runny. Plus, once you consumed your so-so pudding, you’d be forced to watch everyone else enjoy a perfectly chilled treat!
So we waited…and peeked…and waited…and peeked.
Making pudding was — and is — a lesson in patience.
Today, I smiled when Rowan asked, “Are they done yet?” for the fourth time. I’ve been there. To ease the waiting, I let him lick the spatula, just like I did when I was a kid.
After a little more than an hour in the refrigerator, the pudding was set.
“Waiting for a treat makes it taste extra good!” Rowan declared between slurps.