“Which do you like better?” Shay asked.
“I can’t choose. I like them both,” my niece said.
“Focus on this jam,” I said to her as I spooned a dollop of mixed berry over the pudding. “How’s this? Is it what you wanted?”
She took a tentative bite and gazed off into the distance like she was having an existential moment. Then, “It’s the most magnificent thing I’ve ever eaten.”
A laugh burst out of me and I leaned back in my chair. “Great. Nyomi will be thrilled.”
After another bite, she added, “Mixed berry is the best jam for pudding.”
I appreciated that. Mixed berry could be a beast to get right without one of the berries stealing the show. “Do you think we should put together a take-home tapioca kit? Ny’s pudding and a jar of jam?”
Gennie shook her head. “No. It’s a family secret. We shouldn’t sell that shit.”
Shay joined us at the table, a glass of white wine in hand. “Are you happy? Is this a good dessert for people who like dessert?”
“It’s not good. It’sgreat,” Gennie replied.
Shay grinned at me. “The wonders of pudding.”
“Do not interpret this as any indication you should resume your pudding breakfast lifestyle,” I said. “We’re not doing that here.”
“Right, because it’s so much better to hand-slice bread every time someone wants toast. Far more sensible.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “It doesn’t take that long.”
She took a sip of her wine and I could almost hear her response gathering steam. “No, I guess you’re right about that. It doesn’t take long to slice bread. The process does slow down when we have to ride out to the dairy to get butter because you prefer fresh batches every few days, or when we have to go skulking around in the cheese basement—”
“It’s not a cheesebasement,” I argued.
“—because you want cheese aged down to a specific day—”
“It makes a difference,” I muttered.
“—or when we have fifteen different jars of jam in the fridge but we’re not allowed to touch any of them because you’re always in the middle of one secret project or another. Or fifteen.”
“There are at least forty other jars that you are welcome to use.” I gestured toward the pantry. “I believe you know where they are. You’re familiar with the pantry. Aren’t you, wife?”
She swallowed her smile with a sip of wine and glanced away.
Gennie loudly sucked every trace of pudding off her spoon. “These balls feel really big in my mouth.”
I met Shay’s gaze across the table. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and rolled her lips inward to fight off a grin. “What was that?” I asked my niece.
“The balls,” she replied, digging her spoon into the pudding once more. “They’re really big.”
“I see,” I managed.
“In the pudding,” she added. “They’re big tapioca balls. Momma’s pudding never had big balls.”
Shay brought a hand to her mouth and stared down at the table. Her shoulders shook a little and I could hear the stuttering of a repressed laugh.
“I still love this pudding.” Gennie sucked the spoon and stared off into the distance again. “Even if it’s not the same as my memories.”
“Because of the balls,” Shay said, a laugh tearing through each word. I grabbed her wineglass and set it out of reach. “Hey! Give that back.”
“I will when you behave yourself,” I said.
