In the spring of 2002 on an island off the west coast of the Scottish Highlands, I was bewitched—not by the mischievous fairies that were said to frequent the island’s rocky glens, nor by kelpies, the duplicitous horse-like spirits that reportedly inhabit Scotland’s lochs and streams. No, I was beguiled by a serving of steamed marmalade pudding.
The island was Skye, the setting, the world-renowned The Three Chimneys restaurant. The presentation of their signature dessert was unpretentious: a warm, spongy, auburn wedge—cake-like but coarser and visibly moist—surrounded by velvety, primrose-yellow pourable custard.
I paused before digging in, inhaling the aromas that wafted upward: citrus and butter, undergirded by toasty brown sugar notes and punctuated by the boozy zing of the Drambuie that laced the sauce.
That first, haunting bite—fluffy, light, and pleasantly sticky—banished all preconceptions I’d had about steamed puddings being hefty. The bittersweet edge of Seville orange marmalade, though softened by the butter and brown sugar, was still recognizable, especially when I occasionally encountered a delightfully chewy sliver of peel.
As I ate, I realized that the dessert’s stark plating signified the chef’s quiet confidence: When you’ve produced something this sublime, garnishes are superfluous.
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A Brief History of Pudding
Etymologists offer two possible origins of the term “pudding.” It may derive from the West Germanic “pud” (“to swell”), or the French “boudin” (“sausage”), a reference to the entrails used to encase savory medieval puddings (e.g., haggis) mixed from blood or offal, stale bread, and suet and boiled in water. What is certain is that practical, economical pudding has long been a cherished—and evolving—staple of British foodways.
At the start of the 17th century, natural casings were traded for pudding cloth, a woven textile used to swaddle the filling before tying it with twine, and submerging it in boiling water. The 1800s saw further advancements, with a switch from pudding cloths to stoneware basins that sat above the water line to steam their contents. By this time, dessert puddings—sweet with jam, marmalade, or fruits and sugar—were an important part of the tradition.
A few days later, I began working in the kitchen of The Three Chimneys, and before long, I was whipping up the pudding several times per week, delighted to discover how simple the ingredients were and how quick it was to knock together. Now, more than two decades later, I was compelled to adapt the recipe to an American kitchen.
Jam and Bread
Marmalade: With their scant, bitter juice; thick rinds; and copious seeds, Seville oranges aren’t for eating out of hand, but they make a bracing marmalade that perfumes the pudding with an intriguing bittersweetness.
Bread: Instead of the flour that cakes rely on for structure, this pudding is made from fresh bread crumbs, a thrifty ingredient that, in a bit of culinary wizardry, steams into a dessert with a moist, spongy crumb.
Gathering Steam
Steamed puddings differ from most other cakey desserts in that they’re often composed primarily of fresh bread crumbs, not flour. Each speck of bread maintains its structure in the finished pudding, giving it a lovely open crumb. (A small measure of flour is needed for binding everything together.)
The Three Chimneys recipe proceeds thusly: Melt butter and homemade marmalade in a saucepan. Pour the mixture over a heap of bread crumbs, brown sugar, a bit of self-raising flour, and baking soda. Whisk in a couple of eggs; transfer it all to a deep, lidded bowl called a pudding basin; and lower the assembly into a pot of boiling water to steam. Invert the finished pud—which is remarkably moist, thanks to the humid cooking environment—onto a plate, divide it into wedges, and serve it warm.
The Steamy Setup
Steaming in a water bath creates a high-humidity environment that prevents the pudding from drying out. Instead of a traditional British pudding basin, we steam our dessert in an everyday liquid measuring cup. Cover the cup with parchment paper and aluminum foil and secure it with twine before lowering it onto a rack set in a tall pot of boiling water and covering the pot.
Rising and Shining
With no homemade marmalade to hand, I bought a supermarket brand, being sure to select one that contained Seville oranges, which are bitter. The original recipe called for just under an ounce of self-raising flour but, figuring that the leavening power in such a small amount was negligible, I subbed all-purpose flour. Otherwise, I was faithful to the recipe, even using my pudding basin, a memento from my Scottish sojourn.
My first try wasn’t as nuanced as the original, and the whiskey-spiked custard sauce I’d made to accompany it couldn’t hide that deficiency. I suspected the store-bought marmalade was to blame. Shirley Spear, the chef-owner of The Three Chimneys during my time there, spent each January putting up enough intensely orangey marmalade to grace a year’s worth of puddings. With my storebought marmalade falling short, I’d need to use more of it. And I’d have to find a replacement for the pudding basin, a rare item outside the UK.
Increasing the marmalade increased the pudding’s subtle yet pervasive citrus notes, but doing so created a new problem: Weighed down with the extra preserves, my next pudding sported an alarming crater in the center. So I bumped up the flour and added some baking powder for a bit more lift. This pudding rose promisingly. And then it fell.
Reluctant to add yet more flour, which could dull the orangey essence, I cast about for another source of structure. I found it in the bowl of egg whites left over from making the custard. A single white stirred into the generously leavened batter contained enough structure-building protein to prevent the pudding from falling.
As a final touch, I decided to brown the butter. Its toasty flavor admirably supported the caramel notes of the dark brown sugar and marmalade.
Beyond Measure
Finding a stand-in for the pudding basin was my biggest challenge and, eventually, my greatest triumph. To withstand steaming, the vessel I chose needed to be heatproof. And I needed it to be almost as deep as it was wide, not only so that it would fit in the pot but also because I wanted to make a tall, stately pudding.
A glass 4-cup liquid measuring cup turned out to be the perfect container. In fact, it made a pudding of such attractive proportions that I may retire my basin for good. With a lavish pour of rich whiskey custard sauce, I had finally recaptured the magical dessert that captivated me so.
Steamed Marmalade Pudding
A timeless technique turns bread, butter, and marmalade into one of the most special desserts you’ll ever eat.
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Individual Steamed Marmalade Puddings
A timeless technique turns bread, butter, and marmalade into one of the most special desserts you’ll ever eat.
Get the Recipe
