There were two malva puddings, made by two women, that influenced how I make mine. The first was by Leah Luskam, who, when we met, had been making malva pudding at Boschendal for close to 20 years. The malva she made was light, fluffy, and so saucy it teetered on the brink of collapse. It was served in a bowl, with custard, and this pudding was proof that the much of the point of malva is textural.
In this beloved South African dessert, the most luxurious ingredient is cream. For the rest it’s what you might expect to find in a well-stocked fridge and pantry: eggs, sugar, milk, butter, flour, vinegar, bicarb, apricot jam. Combined, these transform into a rectangle of sponge soaked to saturation in sugar-butter-cream sauce. But not everyone has Leah’s light touch.
When it goes right, the reward is a whole that’s lighter than the sum of its parts. When it goes wrong, it’s just dense cake with a damp top. When Leah made malva, she beat the mixture for 15 minutes and told me, ‘I must be in a nice mood when I make it.’ I’ve experienced that too. The success of this dessert, which is so seemingly plain, can be a litmus test for mood. Plain doesn’t always mean simple.
The second malva was by Alicia Wilkinson, the principal at Silwood School of Cookery. It was feather-light on eating and held its shape when cut; a square of cooking-school perfection served with vanilla-speckled cream. Alicia baked hers in a cast iron baking dish she’d received as a wedding gift, with dimensions that allow the sauce to seep all the way through.
The woman I never met was Maggie Pepler, whose recipe and ratios served as the foundation for what eventually became my own. Here’s how I make it.