Recently, I found myself in sympathy with Alan Carr.  I was watching an episode of Alan & Amanda’s Spanish Job on BBC, and the two celebrities were visiting a sherry bodega in Jerez de la Frontera and, while Amanda Holden appeared something of a fan of sherry, you could see that Alan wasn’t taken.  You and me both, Alan.  In fact, I remember remarking to the TV screen at the time: “Sherry: only good for trifle.”

And then I thought, perhaps I was being a ‘trifle’ harsh in my assessment.  After all, there was this Spanish guy in the programme, who had made sherry his life’s work; and, probably, his parents’ life’s work before him, and their parents before them.  Was I being a bit glib to dismiss all these generations of endeavour as nothing more than an alcoholic soaking for sponge fingers?

But then I thought again.  Perhaps I was actually in danger of belittling my own country’s culinary heritage and contribution to global cuisine.  After all: trifle.  It has a history dating back to the sixteenth century, when it was first described in Thomas Dawson’s cookbook The Good Huswifes Jewell.  A sort of proto-Mrs Beeton.

And, if there is one dish that encapsulates Britain in a bowl, surely it is trifle?

There is the syntheticity of the sponge fingers and the jelly; the generosity of the alcohol, judged on the basis of quantity over quality; the liberality of sugars and fats in the cream; the pretence of fruit; and, then there is the custard.  Yellow heaven.  A culinary barbarism of every kind of crème––pâtissière, anglaise, mousseline, diplomate––known to French cuisine.

In fact, for me, I am perfectly happy to strip my trifle back to basics.  Crack open a tin of Ambrosia and simply heat in a saucepan.  Hot custard in a bowl.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue often finds herself in yellow heaven.