The British hold a steamed pudding close to their hearts. Like a culinary hot-water bottle, it may not be terribly elegant but it’s hard not to feel comforted and delighted by its presence.

Most, however, follow a similar formula: a sponge cake mixture that is steamed into ethereal lightness and topped with a gooey, drippy sauce. This isn’t to decry them: I could never be fatigued by the spongy similarity of a golden syrup pudding and a bronzely glistening ginger one but they all come from the same sponge playbook, so I was intrigued to find one that doesn’t fit the mould.

Once turned out, the pudding shows off its stained-glass exterior, candied fruit peeking through the custard

Cabinet pudding is a Victorian steamed pudding, but different from those you might find at the end of a pub menu, as it combines sponge fingers or stale cake with an onslaught of custard. It has fallen somewhat out of favour and is unlike any other pudding I’ve made. The result is soft, wobbly, layered, plump and moist. I described it to a friend as ‘a cooked trifle’, which, while accurate, may suggest I won’t have a career in marketing.

The origins of both the concept and the name are murky. Also sometimes called chancellor’s pudding or Newcastle pudding, there are wildly varying interpretations: some recipes show a simple sponge cake mixture poured on top of a handful of glacé cherries (boring); others claim it is simply a lemony bread and butter pudding (also boring). English Heritage even gives a recipe for cabinet pudding that is an entirely conventional bread and butter pud without embellishment (so boring). So where has the ladyfinger and custard combo come from?

The first mention of ‘cabinet pudding’ is found in William Kitchiner’s The Cook’s Oracle and House Keeper’s Manual, which was published in 1822. This calls for the cook to take a pudding basin and ‘fill up with bread and butter, &c’. But by 1836 we’re getting closer to the savoiardi and custard duo: in John Mollard’s The Art of Cookery, the recipe says to pour hot milk over cake or sponge biscuits before mixing egg whites through the dish, and steaming.

Escoffier’s Le Guide culinaire includes a recipe for a ‘cabinet pudding’ that combines ladyfingers with a custard which uses both egg yolks and whole eggs, and is layered with candied fruit. Interestingly, he also has a recipe for a ‘pudding diplomate’, which is often translated as ‘chancellor’s pudding’, and lines the pudding basin with candied fruit. This version is chilled, rather than steamed, and served cold, and uses a bavarois cream rather than a crème anglaise, but is otherwise strikingly similar to our cabinet pudding.

Today we think of a cabinet pudding as combining both these varieties: ladyfingers, custard and a jewelled coat of glacé fruit. Tessellated candied fruit line the bowl, and then sponge fingers or stale cake make up the body of the pud, and the whole thing is drenched in a perfumed custard before steaming. You can, if you wish, interleave the sponge fingers with crumbled amaretti or ratafia biscuits. A vanilla and sometimes lemon or orange water-scented crème anglaise is poured over the pudding, before it is wrapped and steamed for 90 minutes. Once turned out, the pudding shows off its stained-glass exterior, candied fruit peeking through the custard. You can use whichever candied fruit you fancy, but I favour the contrast of scarlet glacé cherries with bottle-green candied angelica and the mellow yellow of stem ginger. The thin créme anglaise soaks into the sponge fingers and is gently cooked by the steam, just to the point of setting, leaving the pudding with a gentle wobble.

Cabinet pudding probably doesn’t need further custard or cream poured over the top but I’m irresistibly drawn to food writer and historian Regula Ysewijn’s suggestion of serving the pudding with ‘sack sauce’: equal parts butter, sugar and fortified wine (historically, sack wine, but Madeira or sweet sherry will produce a similar effect). Melt the butter until it begins to brown, then add the sugar and booze, and stir until the sugar is dissolved and the sauce is creamy.

Serves: 6
Hands-on time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: 30 minutes

• 15g butter, for greasing
• 6 glacé cherries, halved
• 10g candied angelica, cut into diamonds
• 25g candied stem ginger, sliced into discs
• 400ml whole milk
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• ½ tsp orange blossom water
• 2 egg yolks
• 50g caster sugar
• 150g savoiardi sponge fingers

1. Grease a heat-proof 1 litre-capacity bowl liberally with butter. Arrange the fruits in a pattern, beginning in the centre of the bowl and moving outwards, sticking them to the butter up the sides of the bowl.
2. Combine milk, vanilla and orange water in a saucepan over a medium heat. Whisk together egg yolks and sugar. Once the milk is steaming, pour it over the egg mixture, combine, then return the whole thing to the pan. Lower the heat and cook the custard gently until it thickens. Remove from the heat.
3. Dunk the sponge fingers into the custard and line them up the sides of the bowl until completely covered, then continue to dunk and place the rest of the sponge fingers until the bowl is filled, breaking them up as needed. Pour the remaining custard over the contents of the bowl.
4. Cover the top of the bowl with greaseproof paper, and then a sheet of tin foil on top. Tie tightly around the rim of the bowl with string, cutting away any excess to leave a small border and making a waterproof seal.
5. Place the wrapped pudding in a large pan, and pour enough boiling water into it so that it comes half way up the pudding. Place the covered pan over a low heat and steam for one and a half hours.
6. Unwrap the pudding and turn it out on to a serving plate. Serve warm.