Stir-Up Sunday 2026: One Small Basin, Two Spoons, No Leftovers Until March

There is a particular kind of Christmas pudding that arrives in a tin the size of a paint pot and sits in the cupboard until roughly Easter, daring you to finish it. It is built for a table of nine. In a household of two, it becomes a dare rather than a dessert.

So this year I am downsizing. Stir-Up Sunday falls on 22 November in 2026 — the last Sunday before Advent, the traditional day for stirring the year's pudding and making a wish — and I am making one that fits a one-pint basin. That is enough for two generous servings on the day, plus a slice each on Boxing Day if you are disciplined. Nothing lingers until spring.

The small-household problem

The standard recipe makes a kilo and a half of pudding. You steam it for six hours, you feed it brandy for five weeks, and then you eat a quarter of it and quietly resent the rest. Scaling down sounds obvious, and it is, but a few things do change: the spice-to-fruit ratio needs a lighter hand, the mixture dries out faster in a small basin, and the steaming time shortens.

The other thing that changes is the point of it. A big pudding is a catering exercise. A small one is a ritual you can actually keep.

What you need (mostly already in the cupboard)

A one-pint pudding basin — mine cost about four pounds years ago and has never once let me down. Greaseproof paper, foil, string. Beyond that, the shopping is modest:

• 150g mixed dried fruit (sultanas, raisins, currants, in whatever proportion you like)
• 30g chopped candied peel or glacé cherries, rinsed if they are sticky
• 40g shredded suet — vegetarian works perfectly well
• 40g dark muscovado sugar
• 30g fresh white breadcrumbs
• 30g plain flour
• Half a teaspoon of mixed spice, a grating of nutmeg, a pinch of salt
• 60g Bramley apple, coarsely grated
• Zest and juice of half an orange
• One egg, beaten
• Two tablespoons of stout, ale or dark rum
• One tablespoon of black treacle

That is it. No sixpence, by the way — the tradition is charming and the choking hazard is not.

The method, shortened

Mix everything in a large bowl and stir it properly. Everyone in the house takes a turn and makes a wish; with only two of you, this takes considerably less time than it does on the television.

The mixture should drop from the spoon with a reluctant flop. If it looks tight, add a splash more stout; if it looks sloppy, a few more breadcrumbs. Spoon it into the greased basin, press it down, and level the top, leaving a centimetre of headroom.

Now the lid. A single layer of pleated greaseproof, then a layer of pleated foil, both tied tightly with string under the rim. The pleat matters — it gives the pudding room to rise without bursting its hat.

Stand the basin on a trivet or an upturned saucer in a deep pan, pour in boiling water to come halfway up the sides, clamp on the lid and steam for four hours, topping up with boiling water from the kettle whenever it drops. This is the whole of Stir-Up Sunday, really: a pan gently muttering in the background while you get on with something else.

Once cooled, wrap it — foil, then a bag — and store it somewhere cool and dark. A spoonful of rum or ale once a week is traditional and does no harm, though a pudding this size drinks less than you would think.

On Christmas Day, steam it again for an hour and a half. Turn it out onto a plate, warm a tablespoon of brandy in a ladle, light it, and carry it in with the lights off. It is a small piece of theatre, but it is the good kind.

Why steam rather than microwave

You can microwave a pudding. Five to eight minutes in a covered basin, and it will be hot all through. I have done it, and I will probably do it again in a rush.

But it is not the same pudding. Steaming is a long, humid, gentle cook that keeps the crumb open and the fruit plump; the microwave heats the water inside the mixture so fast that the texture comes out looser, almost crumbly at the edges, and the spices taste flatter. The steamed version slices cleanly. The microwaved one slumps.

There is also something to be said for the fact that steaming is forgiving. You cannot really overcook a pudding in a water bath. You can very easily overcook one in a microwave, and you will know about it.

Honest taste notes

I made the small pudding this month and, for fairness, bought a decent own-brand luxury pudding from the supermarket — the kind with the gold star on the box — and tried them side by side.

The homemade one is darker, denser and noticeably less sweet. The booze reads clearly rather than as a vague background hum, and the orange zest cuts through the suet in a way the shop one does not manage. It slices like a firm fruitcake and holds together on the fork.

The shop-bought one is lighter, sweeter, and more generously studded with candied peel. It is not worse — it is simply built for a broader audience, and it is consistent in a way home cooking rarely is. If you like a pudding that tastes of mixed peel and caramel rather than stout and spice, the tin will probably please you more.

Where the homemade version wins is on the second day. Warmed through in a buttered pan, it firms up and deepens. The shop one goes slightly watery at the edges.

The verdict

If you are going to eat exactly one slice of Christmas pudding this year, buy one. There is no shame in it, and the good ones are genuinely good.

If you want the afternoon — the stirring, the wish, the pan muttering on the hob while the light goes — then make the small one. It costs about six pounds in ingredients, fits in a shoebox, and will not follow you into February.

Stir-Up Sunday is 22 November 2026. That gives you five weeks of feeding and one very manageable basin. Two spoons, one pudding, no leftovers. That is the whole idea.