A pudding in a bowl is one of those quintessential summer festive foods – chilled, aesthetically pleasing, nostalgic and perfect for sharing. And you don’t need to wait till Christmas day to make one.

There’s nothing quite as magnificent as a big bowl of pudding that’s made to share. Perhaps their comforting appeal has something to do with bountifulness. There’s no slivers or slices in the world of big pudding bowls – it’s all about generous scoops from a dish of something that is as delicious as it is infinite. 

The word pudding is baffling on many levels. To start, it’s one of very few nouns ending in “ing” in the English language. And apparently the word comes from a Latin word for sausage or small intestine. 

The worst part is the definition of the word though. What even is a pudding? While I presume most of us take our meaning for this type of dessert from the ordinary American definition – that is, synonymous with a sweet dessert that has a custard or cream-type base – it’s genuinely disturbing how many definitions fall under the British meaning. Over in the UK, a pudding can be spicy, savoury, sweet, bread-like, salty, part of the main meal, something you eat after the main meal, starchy, steamed, raw and more. It means that both haggis and trifle are considered puddings.

The culture surrounding traditional puddings of Polynesia, including Aotearoa, has been written about at length by scholars. They range from intricate pastes or sauces to the starchy or sweet. Māori puddings include roroi (kūmara pudding) and kānga pirau (fermented maize porridge) – both of which can be either sweet or savoury. And while this doesn’t shed any light on the ambiguous definition of pudding, these writers have highlighted the mana these puddings were imbued with, mainly because of their luxuriousness.

A big bowl of pud is something spectacular to behold. It’s the headline act, without taking itself too seriously. There’s an illusion of complexity, but quite often they’re relatively low-effort to put together. And for that reason and more, there’s no better time than now to start whipping some up.

Because the definition is so confusing, I’ve chosen to define pudding for this article’s sake as a dessert that you serve in a large bowl, which is even better eaten for breakfast after being in the fridge overnight.

Here’s a list of the best options to fill your trifle bowl, or if you don’t have one, your biggest glass salad bowl, pyrex or Arcoroc mixing bowl, or even a transparent acrylic bowl will do. Ideally, you do want the bowl to be clear – to see your pudding in all its glory. 

Angel delight

It would be improper to talk about this genre of dessert without a mention of angel delight. The ethereal whipped-up treat is pure retro magic. How does such a miraculous texture arise from whisking an indeterminate chalky powder with milk? I don’t have the answer and perhaps it’s best we never know. A big bowl of the mousse-like creation makes for an impressive pudding to share, and might trigger nostalgia for anyone alive when packets were stocked in the jelly section of Foodtown. Devastatingly, supermarkets don’t seem to sell it any more, but British supply shops usually have sachets.

Pineapple dream

I can’t find anything online to confirm this, but according to a retro Māori cookbook in my bookshelf, pineapple dream is a Hawaiian dish. It consists of layers of crushed wine biscuits, tinned pineapples (though fresh would be a nice touch), whipped cream and a sprinkling of cashews. Most recipes I’ve read call for it to be made in a tin, but because it’s no-bake there’s absolutely no reason this couldn’t be the perfect kitschy sweet to fill your pudding bowl.

Trifle

A few years ago, the food writer Mary Berry controversially declared that jelly had no place in an adult trifle. I agree (sorry Mum). But people are often incredibly protective about the way they make their trifles. Recipes for the festive dessert are so often an expression of family ties, history and personal preferences too. For example, while my mum’s trifle is magnificently layered with sponge, jelly, runny custard, sherry, tinned peaches and topped with a tumble of mixed berries, mine is sponge soaked in raspberries, vodka, homemade custard and cream – with a single raspberry on top. There are options beyond the traditional too; chestnut and chocolate, coconut and mango, stone fruit and lemon curd. Or try the Italian version, zuppa inglese, which sits somewhere between a tiramisu and trifle, with sponge tinted a shocking pink using pomegranate juice. Trifles need not be forgotten about till Christmas time either – they’re perfect served up on a weeknight or as a lazy Sunday afternoon treat.

Tiramisu 

Speaking of tiramisu, why not make a big serving bowl of tiramisu to impress your friends, flatmates or whānau? Here’s a tried and tested (albeit non-traditional, thanks to the addition of cream and cream cheese) recipe from The Spinoff’s Ātea editor Leonie Hayden via her friend Antonia. A note: there’s been a salmonella bug detected in some New Zealand eggs as recently as August – so be cautious with raw egg.

• 200g-250g each of mascarpone cheese and light cream cheese (so long as you have about 400-450g of cheese mix, all good)
• ½ cup cream
• 4 eggs, separated
• ⅓ cup caster sugar
• 2 ½ cups strong black coffee
• ⅓ cup caster sugar, extra
• 2 tablespoons marsala/brandy/armagnac
• 500g savoiardi (sponge finger) biscuits
• ¼ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

Using electric beaters, beat the cheeses until smooth. Add the cream and egg yolks.

Using electric beaters, beat the egg whites in a small bowl until soft peaks form. Add the sugar gradually, beating constantly after each addition, until the mixture is thick and glassy and the sugar is dissolved. Using a metal spoon, fold into the cheese mixture (my most favourite part aside from eating).

Combine the coffee, sugar and marsala or brandy in jug. Very quickly dip one-third of the sponge fingers into the coffee mixture (if you soak for too long it becomes watery as it sits overnight).

Place into the base of four-cup capacity serving bowl. Sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of sifted cocoa. Spread one third of the cheese mixture over the cocoa. Repeat, layering twice more. Refrigerate overnight to allow the flavours to mix and biscuits to soften.

Dust with more cocoa before serving.

Jelly

You could very happily make up a quivery bowl of supermarket-bought lime, raspberry, orange or blackberry jelly, serve it at the dining table alongside a punnet of vanilla ice cream and call it a night. But if you’re wanting to share something with a little more early-2000s sophistication, why not concoct a version laced with prosecco or vodka or with fresh seasonal fruit suspended within.

Ambrosia

Ambrosia is American in origin, but it’s so pervasive in marae wharekai and Māori get-togethers that I’m inclined to say it’s very much been adopted into modern Māori cuisine. Just mix whipped cream, yoghurt (preferably Fresh n’ Fruity strawberry flavour), marshmallows, strawberries and top with crumbled shards of a Flake for good measure. Near-instant food of the gods.

Alison Roman’s banana pudding

Bananas are a controversial fruit, but this kitschy Alison Roman pudding topped with a lone glacé cherry is worth a go. Just imagine the entrance you’d make at your socially distanced picnic with this thing in tow. There’s an excellent recipe video that Roman has made to run you through the steps. Hers uses Nilla wafers (an American product that’s not readily available in New Zealand) but a thin shortbread could work in its place. For a Polynesian approach to a banana pudding, try a Tahitian banana po’e. While the pudding in its traditional form is wrapped in banana leaves and baked in an ahima’a (earth oven), your kitchen oven will do as a substitute. Bonus points if you incorporate banana leaves into your serving bowl.

Eton mess

Eton mess is traditionally made with strawberries, whipped cream and crushed-up meringue – almost like a backward pavlova. But you could combine the latter ingredients with any fruit you wish for a deliciously messy bowl. Last month Vogue uploaded a video of singer Adele trying a range of British foods while blindfolded. There’s a wonderful moment in the video where Adele delightedly realises she’s eating an Eton mess. “It always sounds posh to me,” she says. She goes on to recount her first memory of eating it in London, where a family in their humble shared roof terrace made an Eton mess to share. That seems to capture part of what’s so appealing about the dessert: while it sounds pretty posh, it’s actually rather casual and perfect to share.

Riz bi haleeb

This Levantine rice pudding tends to be served in small bowls, but I think the recipe could easily be adapted to a big bowl instead. Garnished with chopped pistachios and dried rose petals and flavoured with rose water, orange blossom water and sometimes mastic gum (which you can buy here), it’s a more elegant and crowd-friendly alternative to the immensely comforting tinned rice pudding some of us grew up with.

Fool

Go classic with a compote of rhubarb, or go your own way with summer berries, orange or gooseberries (if you can track them down). Swirl through a mass of whipped cream and you’ve got yourself a delicious and extremely old-school recipe – the dish potentially dates back to the 15th century. Because this calls for cooked fruit, it can be a way to use up any frozen fruits you’ve got hanging out in your freezer.

Mousse

The mousse stands out for being both cold and therefore perfect for summer, while maintaining the comforting luxuriousness of the winter-type dessert. Make a big bowl to share at a picnic or to keep in your fridge to chip away at throughout the week. You can, of course, keep it as simple as you like, but a mousse is lovely spiked with liqueur and bejewelled with tinned cherries, blueberries or candied fruit peel.

Perzen Patel used to think she was far too modern for a masala dabba, the traditional Indian spice box her mother adored. Now she has three.

As an eight-year-old, I spent many evenings in our blue-tiled kitchen watching Mum cook dinner. 

I’d sit on the rickety wooden chair my grandfather had inherited, revising general knowledge facts from the popular Bournvita Quiz Contest book. Meanwhile, Mum would have at least three pots going on the stovetop. Her back turned to me, she would chop a bunch of vegetables while stirring fresh coriander into a simmering pot of curry and simultaneously spluttering mustard seeds in hot ghee.

Mum’s most treasured item in that kitchen was her masala dabba. A round steel box containing seven bowls for the seven spices of your choice, the masala dabba is to the Indian kitchen what a microwave is to the western kitchen: a necessity. 

Her box still had the stained Mohan Steel sticker on one side. And, if you ran your hand over the lid, you would find the top edge where her name was engraved along with the year she got married. That box had come with her as part of her wedding trousseau. It had a glass lid so you could peek at the spices inside and seven steel cups that she religiously topped up every weekend. In our house, mum’s masala dabba had turmeric, red chilli, cumin-coriander, garam masala, mustard seeds, dhansak masala and cumin seeds. The first four spices went into practically everything Mum cooked, the mustard and cumin seeds were reserved for her dals, and the dhansak masala was for Sunday’s mutton dhansak and kebabs.

When we moved to New Zealand in 2002, Mum would lovingly reminisce about her dabba that never made it across the ocean with us. Every time she mentioned the box, I would roll my eyes. I couldn’t quite understand the fascination behind a steel box. When it was time to prepare for my wedding trousseau, Mum wanted to gift me an engraved masala dabba. I had more “modern” ideas and asked her to buy me the fancy Briscoes rotating herb rack instead.

Wedding over, I unpacked my herb rack and, to my mother-in-law’s chagrin, kept my herbs on display near the stovetop while the everyday spices stayed hidden in their jars inside the pantry.

I learned quickly that it was a bad idea. Most of the recipes Mum suggested I try started by heating fat – oil or ghee – then adding small amounts of spices quickly, so the mustard seeds pop, cumin seeds toast, and the turmeric powder loses its raw edge without burning. All of this was very hard to achieve while trying to open six different jars!

Our cook Chaya – who had the temperament of a Michelin-starred head chef – humoured me for about 10 days before insisting that I buy a masala dabba. My biggest issue with the box was the tiny bowls you had to keep topping up every few days. It was Chaya who taught me that those bowls were small by design. In the humid heat of India, spices lose their flavour and aroma rather quickly, especially ground spices. This practice of refilling a small amount at a time kept the spices fresh.

Once I became a masala dabba convert, there was no going back. I’d go to my friend’s houses and peek inside their spice boxes – an effective way of judging whether we should be friends or not. My Punjabi friend stored fenugreek leaves, black cardamom and cloves inside her box to add smoky heat to her chole and dhaba curries. In contrast, my South Indian colleague had fennel seeds, nutmeg and green cardamom in her box, while my business partner from Kolkata had panch phoron (a Bengali five-spice mix) in hers. My favourite memory is cooking inside the Marriott kitchen, where the head chef had a 16-compartment masala box! I learned later that he was a strict vegetarian and cooked all his meat curries almost entirely using his nose.

As I became more confident cooking Indian flavours, I realised that one masala dabba wouldn’t do. So today, in my pantry, I have three – a fact that makes my mum laugh a lot. My first box stores all the essential blends I need for my everyday cooking. My second box I use for all my “phodni” or tempering spices like urad dal, whole chillies and dried curry leaves. The third box is for the regional spices I use once in a while. My three-year-old regularly runs away with that box to his play kitchen to make weird wooden vegetable “curries” I’m forced to eat. I’m happy he’s adding spices to them, though, and not sticking to oregano and rosemary like his mum once did.

What to put in your masala dabba

• Turmeric – goes in almost all dishes for colour and health benefits. A great medicinal spice that helps with sore throats and stops the bleeding when you slice your finger with a knife.
• Red chilli powder – choose Kashmiri powder for the bright red colour minus the heat.
• Black mustard seeds – used in the tempering/tadka for any greens and almost always in a curry.
• Cumin and coriander powder – a spice blend you can make at home in a 1:1 ratio. I put this one in all my food, from Mexican chilli to Italian pasta.
• Cumin seeds – used in the tempering for almost all lentils.
• Garam masala – the magical finishing spice of Indian food.
• Your choice – I like to have one spice on seasonal rotation as it helps me be more adventurous with flavour. Sometimes that’s panch phoron, and other times it’s fenugreek leaves.

In New Zealand, you can buy masala dabbas at some Indian grocery stores – Kwality Stores and Lotus Supermarket in Auckland often stock them. Alternatively, if you would like a masala dabba that comes filled with your choice of seven spices, you can also purchase them from my business Dolly Mumma, which ships them across New Zealand.