Treacle Sponge Pudding

This is a pudding for the dark half of the year. Not autumn exactly, not quite the depths of January either, but that long stretch in between when it's dark by five and the cold gets into the bones and what you need, more than anything, is a warm bowl of something sweet and steam-risen.

A treacle sponge is the simplest sort of magic. You butter a basin, pour golden syrup into the bottom, spoon a light sponge batter over the top, and steam the whole thing for an hour and three quarters. That's it. No cleverness. While it cooks, the sponge rises above the syrup and the syrup creeps up into the sponge, and when you turn it out onto a plate the two have reached an understanding: the sponge soft and featherlight, the syrup pooled and glistening and running slowly down the sides. There are few better feelings than carrying one to the table.

The lemon matters. A tablespoon of juice in with the syrup and a little zest in the sponge. Without it, the pudding tips into the cloying. With it, the sweetness has somewhere to go. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: "treacle sponge, lemon, Tuesday, rain." I still think that's the right weather for it.

And proper custard. Not a packet. I know the packet is quicker and I know it's fine, but this is a pudding that deserves the real thing, made with egg yolks and vanilla and a bit of patience at the hob. We're only making dinner. It's worth ten minutes of your attention.