Like a lot of Southerners, food is my family’s love language, especially during the holidays when tastebud-triggered nostalgia packs an even stronger emotional punch. With a bite of oyster pie, I can hear my late uncle’s belly laugh and remember his teasing smile as he prompted me to taste it—just one bite. It took years, but I eventually relented, discovering it was in fact delicious despite the dubious name. The tang of Zing Zang transports me to the crowded confines of my grandmother’s wet bar, where the adults mixed batches of Bloody Mary’s as family slowly trickled in on Christmas Day.
Bowls of hulled oranges—a true labor of love—remind me of my mother’s sunny Charleston kitchen and big post-Santa breakfasts. So, when my husband Tanner and I prepared to spend the first Christmas of our marriage with my extended family in Charleston, my mom naturally looked to the kitchen for a way to make him feel more at home and texted my mother-in-law to inquire about any beloved Hicklin-family holiday food traditions that she might be able to recreate as a surprise. Her response was quick: Boiled Custard, which was his grandfather Hack’s annual contribution to the holiday table.
What Is Boiled Custard?
If you haven’t heard of boiled custard (and there’s a good chance you haven’t), think a traditional custard that’s thicker than eggnog (you need a spoon to eat it) but thinner and humbler than crème brûlée. Made from simple ingredients—whole milk, eggs, sugar, and vanilla—the retro dessert has roots in Southern Appalachia and the adjacent regions, but even in those communities, it’s a decidedly old-school dish, something your grandparents might have made.
Both of Tanner’s maternal grandparents grew up with boiled custard at Christmas, despite being raised on opposite sides of the Appalachian Mountains in Upstate South Carolina and southeastern Tennessee. However, only Hack’s tee-totaling Baptist family made an exception during the holidays and spiked their boiled custard with a bit of good bourbon. Later, Hack kept his boiled custard booze-free, deferring to his wife’s nonalcoholic sensibilities.
Hack and his wife, Martha.
Elizabeth Hutchison Hicklin
The Art of Boiled Custard
In their grandfather’s kitchen, Tanner, his brothers, and cousins were schooled on the rewards of patience as Hack taught them to gently (and constantly!) stir the custard mixture until it reached the desired consistency; a slow process that can take an hour and a half or more. “If you had to stop—for any reason—you were under strict instructions from Hack to find a replacement stirrer,” my father-in-law recalls.
Although the name suggests otherwise, the custard should never be allowed to actually boil, which would risk scrambling the eggs and ruining the custard. Finally, the thickened mixture is poured through a fine mesh strainer, and chilled. Because of the time involved, Hack often made his own several days in advance and stored the batches in repurposed peppermint candy jars in the refrigerator until it was time to serve.
Hack’s recipe for boiled custard.
Elizabeth Hutchison Hicklin
Keeping the Tradition Alive
Years later, with Hack’s recipe in hand, my mom attempted to recreate a little of that Christmas magic for Tanner in Charleston. She’d eaten boiled custard as a child, but her grandmother served it over Jello, and as such, her memories of it weren’t particularly fond. But my mom is the perennial glass-half-full-type and committed to giving the dish a second chance for Tanner.
Hack’s recipe is handwritten and loosely recorded in the way someone who cooks from memory might jot it down. As a result, her first attempt took nearly three times as long as Hack’s recipe indicated and was a bit thinner than she would have liked, but no one, least of all Tanner, minded. To reflect a marriage of tradition, she served it in my grandmother’s custard dishes that first Christmas, and in the years since she’s perfected her technique. (Pro tip: Don’t use ice-cold ingredients unless you want to be stuck by the stove stirring all afternoon.)
“I started making boiled custard for Tanner,” she says, “but I fell in love with the process.” She’s served it every Christmas Day since, adding her own spin. Today, like Hack’s parents, she includes a heavy splash of bourbon and serves it alongside toasted pound cake.
Last Christmas, my son, Hack’s namesake, tasted his first bite—and just like that, four generations of food tradition became five.