It’s Christmas evening and I’m sitting at the long rectangular table adorned with golden decorations, plates, and napkins. My family sits at one table, 14 of us, with British paper crowns on our heads. I wait to be served the warm, buttery, savory Yorkshire pudding—a flakey, popover with the center waiting for my gravy.

I'm hesitant to try the Yorkshire pudding. It doesn't sound or look appetizing. Of course, I don't want to say that and offend anyone.

I hear my Auntie Paula say, “You never know if you’re gonna like it until you try it.”

I also hear my mother say, “I think you're really gonna like it, just try it. It's going to be delicious.”

As mom passes the delicate, white ceramic plate and the gravy boat, I decide to put it on my plate. I’m thinking, Give it a taste, how bad can it be?

After the prayer and speech, the hot, delightful array of plates are dished out, my family begins to eat. I pour the savory, onion gravy over the pudding. Taking my first bite, chewing, I think, Hey, this ain’t so bad. It is actually quite delightful. It is rich, buttery, chewy, light and flakey.  

It looks very fluffy.

Although, it’s a strange texture, I find myself liking it. Why I had been so scared?

After my first bite, my mother asks, “How is it? Did you enjoy it?”

I smiled at her, my mouth still full.

My dad says, “It’s good, isn't it?”

I nod.

My grandpa tells me, “It’s British. We used to eat this every Sunday when we were younger in England. It’s a part of your heritage. Don't forget where you come from.”

I couldn't wait for next Christmas, so I could eat another one.