A couple of months ago, the Southern husband and I went out to dinner to this fabulous place (pay attention, all you Rockland County New York readers out there) called Hudson House. We had a simply fabulous meal there, and when it came time for dessert, we ordered butterscotch pudding, which you don’t often see on menus and which sounded like a nice, regular dessert. The owner (who is also the dessert chef) promised we would love it, saying it was based on Wolfgang Puck’s recipe.
It was not a regular dessert. It was an outstandingly creamy, silky, smooth pillow of butterscotch heaven on a spoon. We devoured it down to the last molecule of butterscotch, and ever since then the Southern husband has been reminiscing about it. Remember that butterscotch pudding? Man, wasn’t that butterscotch pudding out of this world? Oh, that butterscotch pudding!
All right, all ready. I thought, how hard could this be, and I went down a rocky, alarming butterscotch pudding road that was a little similar to the chicken-fried steak road I have been down before. But I wasn’t going to let that butterscotch pudding get the best of me, and I finally smartened up and Googled “Wolfgang Puck Butterscotch Pudding Recipe,” and what do you know? There it was. And while it is supposed to be served chilled, let me just say that the Southern husband was licking the spoon, the bowl, the pot and the butterscotch drips on the counter, and musing aloud that warm pudding might be just as good as cold pudding.
Side note: when I was taking the picture, the pudding looked a little lonely by itself, and since I am STILL stumped about what to do with all the mint that is growing about 10 feet a day in my Aerogarden….
…I popped a sprig on top of each one, and it was just the right amount of festive. So there you go – never let it be said that a butterscotch pudding got the best of ME!
Last but not least, I have to end with this seemingly unrelated picture of a cat.
It’s my mom’s cat, and his name is…Butterscotch. Now it’s all clear to you, right?
Butterscotch Pudding, from Wolfgang Puck via the LA Times