When my mother was small, her mother became quite ill while pregnant with her fourth child. It was the depression. It was winter. They were struggling like nothing we will ever see. The family had been relocated again and again as Pa went from town to town looking for work. So Grandma had landed in yet another house, in yet another strange town with three small children and one more on the way and no family or friends to call on.
Grandma told me part of this story and Mum told me the other part. I am not sure that they knew that the other had spoken of it. This was in the hard times.
Pa was working. Maybe rabbiting I am not sure. He was away for weeks at a time. My grandmother, pregnant, became very ill and the doctor sent her immediately to the hospital. The children, my mother and her two brothers, were taken to a Catholic orphanage. As I understand it this was only for a few days, maybe a week. Imagine the fury of Grandma when she recovered and found her children had been stashed in an orphanage by the priest, in the absence of her husband. But there was no-where else for them to go, until one of the Aunties could get there.
Mum told me that the children all ate in a large dining room. The girls on one side and the boys on the other. One night rice pudding was served. Mum refused to eat hers. Just refused. It was winter dark and cold in the big room. I do not know why, I am not even sure how old she was(maybe 5 or 6) but she was a little girl who hated rice and she had run to the end of her tether. She just said No. Thank you.
A battle of wills ensued between this little woolly headed child and the Sister in charge of the dining hall. All the children silently ate their pudding as Mum sat solidly on her bench with her arms folded and her mouth closed. Her brothers across the room ate quickly and watched with rising horror as their sister got deeper and deeper into trouble. The nun in charge announced that she would have to just sit there until she had eaten her rice pudding all up. She was not allowed to leave the dining hall until her bowl was empty.
The wee girl locked eyes with her brothers across the room as they were led away in a line to wash and then into bed in the dormitories on the next floor. She sat in her long socks and slippers, a woolen skirt and shirt topped with a thin hand-knitted cardigan buttoned to her chin. It was cold. It was always cold there.
She sat up straight on her bench in this enormous drafty wood lined room, high ceilings, long windows. The tables were cleared and wiped by the older orphan girls and soon she was all alone. Her arms still folded, her mouth still shut. Slowly lights went out in the far reaches of the room and yet still she sat. The nun moved in and out checking on her. Cold began to creep up her legs and into her back. But the little girl did not move.
The door where she had last seen her brothers, opened ever so slowly. She saw a shadow like a big cat creep through the door and drop to the floor. Her eyes whipped to the kitchen doors, she could hear the murmur of the Nuns. The room was empty. The dark shape scuttled across the floor and under the seats. It was only a shadow. But she knew it was her brother.
The Nun pushed open the kitchen door, releasing a shaft of light into the room and peered down the room at Mary. Mary turned and glared back. The Nun, probably wishing she had never begun this, wordlessly retreated back to the well lit kitchen. The light shrank back to a small puddle around the girl.
Mary’s little brother had appeared at her feet under the table, his eyes huge in his face, he held out his grubby hands. She quickly handed down the untouched bowl of rice pudding. He started to dig in with his fingers. No, she said, use the spoon. She handed it to him. Within seconds the bowl was empty and returned to the table. Her little brother smiled and wiped his nose with a small sniff. She handed him her napkin. Now go, she said. Resting her hand on his head for a second. After a quick smearing swipe, he scuttled back into the dark, returning to his shadow shape then slipped out of the room.
She sat a while longer with her empty bowl. Then she took her dish and spoon to the scullery window and was escorted gently up to her dormitory filled with sleeping strangers and tucked into bed.
As long as I knew my Mother she never ate or made rice pudding. So this is not her recipe. I may have got it from Grandma but I have been making it for so long it’s origins have drifted into the mists of time. I love it.
Rice Pudding
Cover the bottom of your dish with rice. Sprinkle over a tablespoon of sugar or honey, and a few sultanas. Half fill the dish with milk and cream, cook slowly in a moderate oven, for about 45 minutes. Be careful not to over cook as it will keep drying out after you have lifted it from the oven. (I added some home made apple sauce today).
c
The Kitchen's Garden 
84 responses to “My mother hated Rice Pudding”
Lovely story about the strength she had when she had not much else, and the support of her family. Thank you 🙂
Poor little kids, and they probably were not sure what was happening with their mother either.. c
You have told that heartrending story beautifully. I looovvve rice pudding!
So do I ViV, I never understood why Mum decided to make a stand about it. It tastes so good, but maybe the one in the orphanage was icky.. I love it c
wow she sure stood her ground huh? 🙂 I love rice pudding! it’s a perfect anytime snack 🙂
I eat it as a snack sometimes too Andy, it is so simple and tasty.. c
It certainly is! only thing is i have a bad habit of enjoying it more oops 😉 lol
Wow, I can see where you got your strong will and resilience. What a great story.
Thanks greg, hope you are having a restful sunday.. c
So wonderful to read about your Mum and Grandma and their stories! It shows how strength and determination have been passed down to you!
And the rice pudding recipe looks and sounds delicious!!!
Hi Diane. My kids grew up on it and they all love it. c
Your mother was strong and proud and they couldn´t take that away from her. I´m glad it´s your beautiful recipe and not hers – I´m glad becuase she never had to eat or make something she didn´t like and that bought back bad memories for her.
She never made it and she made no bones about hating it. She went on to a boarding school too so i imagine there was lots of rice pudding she ignored there as well! c
I love the story. And I love rice pudding. And I’ve never really had a recipe to try. I’ll try this one. Thank you.
I love rice pudding too, Charlotte. Todays was very tasty. Remember to watch it at the end so that it stays creamy. c
I was transported today, c and I must thank you for that… I always love a good story. This one was particularly touching because it was a true one. I love your grandmother’s courage, your mother’s bravery and her brother’s act of love:) This is a true Christmas tale… maybe a great children’s book?? The kind that make me cry..
It does sound christmassy doesn’t it i never thought of it that way, i should write it up properly one day.. well i will write them all up one day! c
Nicely told story. I remember my wife Jenny recounting a similar encounter which she had with a plate of liver – luckily this was at a day school where time was on her side.
Ah yes, they could not make her sit there all night. She would have been saved by the bell! people either love liver or hate it! c
A touching story, Celi, and a testament to your Mother’s resolve. My Mom was well into her 50’s before she would eat polenta. WIth so little money during the Depression, polenta was a mainstay of their diet and Mom vowed never to eat it again once given a choice. We are blessed to come from such hardy stock!
Maybe that was why, maybe she just never wanted to see another spoonful of the stuff ever again. Just like your mother. I cannot imagine Grandma letting her get away with that kind of behaviour at home. We have come from hardy stock though haven’t we.. thanks john.. c
a beautifully told story, and one you can read on many levels, I like how your mum’s brother went to hep out his sister 🙂
It does have many levels and though this only skims the top of the story I had to collect the facts from both my mother and her mother.. and noone remembers anything the same way. c
Your poor grandmother, and how frightening for your mother and her siblings. It must have been brutally hard times. Thanks for the read, but I’m with your mum, I can’t stand sweet rice pudding either, unless the rice is black and laced with coconut milk.. 🙂
Ohhh, you’re right, Celia, I’ve had it at Thai restaurants, usually under the name Forbidden Rice (and it kind of looks like blackberries have been cooked down in the coconut milk because of the rice color). SO tasty.
I know celia, your heart goes out to the poor wee sods.. and oh my goodness that sounds like a very interesting take on rice pud… do you have that recipe or can I make it up.. though i have never seen black rice, i would need to find some.. fascinating take on an old classic.. c
Celi and Kathryn, I wrote a blog post on it ages ago (Celi, hope it’s ok to put link here, please delete if you like):
The Malaysian version is a little different from the Thai, but they’re both sooo goood.. 🙂
The glutinous black rice is available at Chinese grocers!
Celia I am more than happy to have the link here, Our John cooks Thai food every Sunday so he will be very grateful.. thank you.. c
Oh double yum, I cooked Thai rice pudding in Bangkok in a cookery class, and you have both reminded me how good it is 🙂 I’m going to have to dig out my recipe to see the difference between the Thai and the Malay now. Thanks again 🙂
Thanks for sharing it, Celia!
What a sad story; your mother as a young child alone in that cold room. I am not surprised she never ate or made rice pudding after that episode. I on the other hand adore rice pudding.
It really is a sad story. Though the way Mum told it did not seem sad. She was more irate that they tried to make her eat something she hated.. c
What a powerful and moving story of the love between siblings. It makes me think of all the children who lived in an orphanage 15 miles from my home and the stories I’ve read about the abuse they endured. It simply breaks my heart.
I don’t think Mum suffered from abuse, I just think she was a stroppy determined naughty little girl who hated rice pudding but the poor things must have been so confused and scared. c