Boiled Custard
As was the custom in the South, I always called them Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody. They lived just down the road from my grandparents, but I always enjoyed visiting them more than my grandparents.
They had lost their only son to illness when he was only six years old, and had more or less adopted my father as a replacement. They were probably better parents for my father than his own parents. He was the oldest of six children, and his mother suffered from mental illness severe enough to require hospitalization a couple of times. Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody did what good parents can do for a child: open up a sense of possibility. I doubt my father would have gone to college were it not for their influence; none of his siblings did.
We’d usually visit my grandparents first, where my grandmother would be more interested in her Chihuahua than her grandchildren and my grandfather would either be gone fishing or watching television. We’d do our duty there, then go visit Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody.
Christmas time was the best time to visit. There’d be a warm fire in the fireplace, goodies to eat, and the drink that eggnog aspires to be: boiled custard. I’ve never encountered boiled custard outside of the South, but every Christmas, Mrs. Nancy would make wonderfully rich boiled custard. Like many Southern delights, it was tooth-achingly sweet. I’d sit on the hearth next to Mrs. Nancy’s chair and sip the boiled custard, and it was reward for having tolerated another trip to my grandparents.
Instead of the grossly overweight neurotic Chihuahua Granny had, Mrs. Nancy had a calm German shepherd named Ellie Mae. In the summertime when we’d visit, we’d have ice cream instead of boiled custard, and Ellie Mae would eat a bowl of ice cream with us. Sharing store-bought ice cream with a dog was fine, but Ellie Mae didn’t get any of the boiled custard. Making boiled custard was time-consuming and labor intensive; it had to be stirred constantly over a low heat until it reached the right consistency.
I was in college one of the last times we went over there at Christmas time and had boiled custard, before Mrs. Nancy grew too frail and forgetful to make it anymore. We were sitting around her kitchen table, and Mrs. Nancy was washing dishes, because she had cooked for Mr. Woody’s brothers and sisters that day. Seeing that she had too many dishes to fit in the drainer, I got up and grabbed a towel and started drying. She turned to me and said, “Oh, I was hoping you were going to do that, but I didn’t want to have to ask.” I felt like I had passed a test, a test of maturity.
Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody are both gone now, as are my grandparents. I haven’t spent a Christmas in the South in ten years. But this Christmas, as every Christmas, I’ll make a batch of boiled custard, and remember Mrs. Nancy. Sometimes, the best family is the family you choose.
Boiled Custard
(makes 3 quarts)
½ gallon whole milk
2 cups sugar
6 whole eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1½ tablespoons butter
Combine milk, sugar, and eggs in a 6 quart pan. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture coats a spoon. Remove from heat, and stir in vanilla and butter. Strain through a small mesh sieve. Chill well.
They had lost their only son to illness when he was only six years old, and had more or less adopted my father as a replacement. They were probably better parents for my father than his own parents. He was the oldest of six children, and his mother suffered from mental illness severe enough to require hospitalization a couple of times. Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody did what good parents can do for a child: open up a sense of possibility. I doubt my father would have gone to college were it not for their influence; none of his siblings did.
We’d usually visit my grandparents first, where my grandmother would be more interested in her Chihuahua than her grandchildren and my grandfather would either be gone fishing or watching television. We’d do our duty there, then go visit Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody.
Christmas time was the best time to visit. There’d be a warm fire in the fireplace, goodies to eat, and the drink that eggnog aspires to be: boiled custard. I’ve never encountered boiled custard outside of the South, but every Christmas, Mrs. Nancy would make wonderfully rich boiled custard. Like many Southern delights, it was tooth-achingly sweet. I’d sit on the hearth next to Mrs. Nancy’s chair and sip the boiled custard, and it was reward for having tolerated another trip to my grandparents.
Instead of the grossly overweight neurotic Chihuahua Granny had, Mrs. Nancy had a calm German shepherd named Ellie Mae. In the summertime when we’d visit, we’d have ice cream instead of boiled custard, and Ellie Mae would eat a bowl of ice cream with us. Sharing store-bought ice cream with a dog was fine, but Ellie Mae didn’t get any of the boiled custard. Making boiled custard was time-consuming and labor intensive; it had to be stirred constantly over a low heat until it reached the right consistency.
I was in college one of the last times we went over there at Christmas time and had boiled custard, before Mrs. Nancy grew too frail and forgetful to make it anymore. We were sitting around her kitchen table, and Mrs. Nancy was washing dishes, because she had cooked for Mr. Woody’s brothers and sisters that day. Seeing that she had too many dishes to fit in the drainer, I got up and grabbed a towel and started drying. She turned to me and said, “Oh, I was hoping you were going to do that, but I didn’t want to have to ask.” I felt like I had passed a test, a test of maturity.
Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody are both gone now, as are my grandparents. I haven’t spent a Christmas in the South in ten years. But this Christmas, as every Christmas, I’ll make a batch of boiled custard, and remember Mrs. Nancy. Sometimes, the best family is the family you choose.
Boiled Custard
(makes 3 quarts)
½ gallon whole milk
2 cups sugar
6 whole eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1½ tablespoons butter
Combine milk, sugar, and eggs in a 6 quart pan. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture coats a spoon. Remove from heat, and stir in vanilla and butter. Strain through a small mesh sieve. Chill well.
posted by WritingMom at 10:11 AM
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