The Secret to a Happy Marriage? Two Yorkshire Puddings

There are many, many reasons why I’m lucky to be spliced to my amazing hubby, Ryan. But right up there is the fact that he can’t stand Yorkshire puddings.

I know. Unbelievable right? But being South African, he says he “just doesn’t get them”. What’s to get? They are fluffy, golden perfection… or at least they should be. The one and only time I attempted to make them, they came out less “light and airy delight” and more “soggy-bottomed tragedy” not unlike me trying to wrestle myself into my Spanx.

But Ryan, bless him, would rather put white rice on his Sunday dinner. Rice on a roast.I mean… I love the man, but let’s not pretend that’s not psychopath behaviour.

Anyhoo, the point I’m eventually crawling towards is this: when we go out for Sunday lunch, which we did this weekend at The Chester Moor in Chester-le-Street, something magical happens.

It was stunning. Proper belt-loosening, need-a-nap-afterwards kind of food. I could genuinely have done with a forklift to get me back to the car. But, AND HERE’S THE BEST BIT, Ryan always passes me his Yorkshire pudding.

Result. And let me tell you, no matter how full I amthat Yorkie pud is going straight down my craw. There is always room. Always.

Because as a good Yorkshire lass that pudding isn’t just food, is it? Oh no. It’s a vessel. A gravy-holding, plate-saving, carb-based engineering marvel. A delicious little bowl designed specifically to stop your gravy flooding your peas and causing a minor Sunday dinner crisis. Frankly, it’s doing the Lord’s work.

So yes, along with pickled onion Monster Munch and every cheese known to man (bar cottage, let’s not get carried away), Yorkshire puddings remain one of life’s greatest joys.

And thanks to my Yorkshire-pud-denying husband… I get two.

Which, when you think about it, is the real secret to a happy marriage.