The other day Conrad Black miffed a bunch of toffs over at NRO. It was rather amusing to watch. His writing was even more amusing:
To move the inquiry that Ms. Dowd usefully started to entirely secular matters, there could be searching questions about why the Supreme Court has sat like a great suet pudding for decades while the Bill of Rights has been raped by the prosecution service with the connivance of the legislators, a tri-branch travesty against the civil rights of the whole population, but I will spare readers another dilation on that subject.
The problem may have been is that when it comes to great suet puddings most Americans have a Michelle Obama-like reaction - sheer revulsion and then she happily tucks into her oyster po’ boy, seafood crepe, shrimp and grits, buttermilk biscuits chased down with a 15 layer carrot cake. The late American food writer, Laurie Colwin, of the late food magazine, Gourmet was the one who introduced me to great suet puddings:
Suffolk Pond Pudding, although something of a curiosity, sounded perfectly splendid. First, you line a pudding basin with suet crust. Then you cut butter mixed with sugar into small pieces. Next you take an entire lemon and prick it all over with a fork. Then you stick the lemon on top of the butter and sugar, surround it with more butter and sugar, stick a pastry lid on the top, tie it up in a pudding cloth and steam in a kettle for four hours. It never occurred to me that nobody might want to eat it.
I followed every step carefully. My suet crust was masterful. When unwrapped from its cloth, the crust was a beautiful, deep honey color. I turned it out onto an ornamental plate...The pudding was brought to the table. My host and hostess, my future husband and a woman guest looked at it suspiciously. I cut the pudding. As Jane Grigson had promised, out ran a lemon-scented buttery toffee. I sliced up the lemon, which was soft and buttery too. Each person was to get some crust, a slice of lemon and some sauce.
What a hit!, I thought. Exactly the sort of thing I adored. I looked around me happily, and my happiness turned to ash.
My host said: "This tastes like lemon-flavored bacon fat."
"I'm sure it's wonderful," said my hostess. "I mean, in England."
The woman guest said: "This is awful."
My future husband remained silent, not a good sign. I had promised him a swell dessert and here was this weird, inedible sludge from outer space. The others ate ice cream. I ate almost the entire pudding myself.