My Mother’s Festive Sherry Trifle
A recipe for that British classic
My mother, who developed dementia in later life, passed two years ago. One day, while visiting her in the home she had been transferred to, we were having fun reminiscing about past meals (she was an excellent cook back in the day) and I asked her if she could recall her famous sherry trifle recipe, which was always wheeled out at Christmas, birthdays and other special family occasions. To my disappointment, however, she said she had no recollection of ever having made it.
I think the tradition may have started because I loathed all dried fruit – still do – and she probably thought she ought to provide an alternative Christmas pudding for her picky, fussy elder daughter. (If you saw me now, you’d never believe how picky I was over food back then.) I remember the grown-up taste of sherry and thinking how wildly sophisticated it all was; although I imagine it would have been a very small amount, suitable for a child’s palate, and added merely to enhance the other flavours.
I can’t give you exact ingredients. If you’re unable to operate in a kitchen without following minutely-detailed, overly-complicated recipes, this is not for you. We’re not talking MasterChef level here. Other trifle recipes are available online. It’s really more of an assembly job involving lots of delicious layers, although Mum did toast her own almonds for the topping; probably because it was back in the days before you could buy ready-toasted ones, which is what I always do now. Life’s too short!
Scale up or down, according to however many people you’re catering for. Plus leftovers, of course. There must always be leftovers. Enjoy them for breakfast. It’s Christmas - to hell with conventions!
Packet(s) of trifle sponges, halved. You could also use a plain madeira cake or similar instead, cut into slices, if you happen to have one handily lying about the house.
Fresh cream, or creme fraiche. Anything will do. Even tinned, with its unique metallic tang. Lovely.
Mum used to make her own custard, but these days you can buy fancy fresh vanilla-infused custard from most supermarkets, so why bother?
A brief note on jelly: No. Though if you really, really must, maybe consider lime green as a festive-looking contrasting layer.
Raspberry jam for the sponges/plain cake, and lots of lovely fresh raspberries. It must be raspberries, here, by the way, and absolutely never, ever those tins of awful mixed fruit which always have those revolting glacé cherries in them. And don’t get me started on bananas in a trifle. Urgh! You see? Picky.
Find a glass bowl from the back of a cupboard – or two, if you’re catering for a large crowd. Wipe off the dust and cobwebs from when they last made an appearance back in the early 1980s and remember to clear some space in the fridge (No one really likes sprouts and who needs that much cheese anyway?).
Line bowl(s) with the halved sponges or sliced plain cake, spread with raspberry jam. (Tinker with other flavours at your peril - although, whisper it, I have heard of apricot jam and apricots or peaches as replacements for the raspberries. That might work, I suppose.)
Add your layer of fresh raspberries (or whatever) and repeat these layers until you run out of ingredients and space, remembering to leave enough room for the custard and cream layers, of course.
Dowse the whole lot with as much sherry as you think you can get away with, bearing in mind any innocent children around, and ensuring there’s enough left for a quiet swig or three later on when you’re really going to need it. Chef’s perk.
Now for the custard. If you’re making your own, allow it to cool completely before this stage. It must never be runny. If using a ready-made fresh product (as I do), just dollop it on, making sure to cover all the sponges/slices in a nice hearty thick layer.
After this, the cream. Again, don’t be miserly with this layer. Slather it on. Park the diet; you’ve already reached the point of no return. Tomorrow is another day. You can chomp on salad then.
Finally, your chosen topping. Be as artistic or creative as you like. Use any leftover raspberries (or whatever), the aforementioned almonds and maybe even some small meringue shapes. If there’s room, you could have fun spelling out people’s names in tiny stars or silver and gold balls, or maybe try Season’s Greetings or No I Haven’t Made An Alternative. It’s This Or Nothing or Leave Some For The Rest Of Us or What Time Is Your Last Train Again? or whatever. But no swear words, please. This is a family trifle after all, and most likely to be enjoyed before the television watershed.
Place your your luscious, beautiful, highly calorific bowl(s) in the newly-cleared fridge and allow them to chill for however long you need them to. This will also give the flavours a chance to meld and develop and form lifelong friendships.
Assign the washing-up to someone else, then disappear into a quiet dark corner to finish off that bottle of sherry. You deserve it. Cheers!