Why your summer pudding needs a splash of elderflower

Is there a sight more pleasing, more cheering, than the vermillion dome of a summer pudding? Its vibrant colour cannot fail to raise a smile, even on dreary June days, suggestive as it is of all that is best about the British summer when it plays ball: gluts of sweet, juicy fruit, that sweet-sour tightrope that our summer crops walk so deftly, long lunches in the garden, and sticky fingers.

Each time I make a summer pudding, I am convinced it won’t hold. That, after a day of soaking, the flimsy bread frame will give way, spilling forth its berry contents all over the plate. Each time I turn out the pudding, I am freshly delighted and surprised; triumphant, as if it is my structural skill rather than berry juices that is to be congratulated. It is a pudding which defies gravity and sense, and rewards faith. Its simplicity is the key to its success: plain, slightly staling white bread (brioche seems altogether too rich, too sweet to suit a dish like this, and for goodness sake, don’t bother making your own), showcasing the best of summer fruits. On the one hand, it is elegant in its simplicity; on the other, it seems distinctly British to name soggy, stale bread stuffed with fruit after an entire season. I love it.

When it comes to the fruit, raspberries, redcurrants and blackcurrants are to my mind the non-negotiables, but they can be supplemented with cherries, blueberries, even tayberries, loganberries, and strawberries – although I rather love chef and pudding king Jeremy Lee’s addition of gooseberries. A splash of elderflower cordial gives the pud an even fresher, floral, summery note. Like all the best puddings, it should be served with the thickest double cream you can find.