Buttery brioche bread pudding with jammy blueberries

Something you should know about me: I am, deeply and sincerely, a sketch comedy nerd.

It’s one of those art forms that scratches my brain in exactly the right place. What probably started with “The Muppet Show” eventually morphed into a lifelong special interest: I’ve seen every episode of “Saturday Night Live” at least once, can quote large swaths of “Portlandia” and “I Think You Should Leave” from memory and maintain — with the confidence of a person who has spent far too much time thinking about this — that “Kids in the Hall” remains the best sketch series Lorne Michaels has ever produced.

(Yes, better than “SNL.” I said what I said.)

I love watching comedians navigate that impossible little tightrope between structure and chaos: character work, timing, escalation, commitment and, ideally, a killer ending. From “Mr. Show” to “Key & Peele,” from “A Black Lady Sketch Show” to “A Bit of Fry and Laurie,” great sketch comedy feels a little like magic.

And then, somewhat embarrassingly for a person who has now lived in Chicago (home of “Second City”) three separate times, I finally fell in love with improv.

These days, my post-work comfort watches are increasingly filled with Dropout’s “Make Some Noise” and “Game Changer,” old episodes of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and, yes, “Taskmaster,” which I believe is not-so-secretly one of the best improv shows ever made despite being lightly disguised as a competition.

What I love most about improv is the responsiveness of it. The trust. The commitment. The willingness to build something delightful out of whatever appears.

And the more I watch it, the more I think good improv and good cooking — especially budget cooking — rely on the exact same muscles. You work with what’s in front of you. You stay flexible. You recover when things go sideways. You commit to the bit. You “yes, and…” your way toward something unexpectedly wonderful.

Which brings me to bread pudding.

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No dessert in my kitchen feels more fundamentally improvisational than bread pudding. It is, at its core, a recipe built from leftovers and instinct: stale bread, a few eggs, some kind of dairy, whatever sweetness is nearby and enough confidence to believe it will all come together in the oven.

It also happens to be one of the great budget desserts; the kind that quietly rewards the cook who knows how to stretch, repurpose and revive. Bread pudding doesn’t ask for perfection or specialty ingredients. In fact, it’s often better when made from the odds and ends already lingering around your kitchen.

And, much like improv, bread pudding can absolutely fall flat. Too wet and it slumps into mush territory. Too dry and it tastes like disappointment in casserole form. The good versions — the deeply custardy ones with crisp edges and pockets of surprise throughout — rely on balance, responsiveness and a little bit of nerve.

But once you understand the structure, the whole thing becomes wonderfully flexible. Suddenly, the half-empty carton of cream in the fridge, the berries on the brink of collapse and the hamburger buns lingering in the bread box stop looking like scraps and start looking like material.

You “yes, and…” your way toward dessert.

Bread pudding building blocks

Here are the building blocks:

Bread

Most any kind will do, which is part of the magic. Brioche hamburger buns. Half a loaf of sandwich bread. The heel ends of sourdough. Honey wheat. Challah. Even cornbread, if you want to lean the whole thing slightly Southern and spoon it warm into bowls with whipped cream.

If the bread is a little stale, even better. Bread pudding loves a near-expiration experience. If it’s still fresh and squishy, give it a quick toast in the oven first so it can absorb the custard without dissolving.

The binder

Typically, this is some combination of cream and eggs, but bread pudding is remarkably forgiving. I’ve made lovely versions with 2% milk, oat milk, almond milk, half-and-half and the random splash of buttermilk left lingering in the back of the fridge after a biscuit project.

The point is richness and structure — enough dairy and egg to transform bread into something soft and custardy rather than merely wet.

Sweetness

One of the reasons I love bread pudding so much is that it rewards restraint. I’m a devoted member of the “Oooh, I like this, it’s not too sweet” school of dessert, and bread pudding thrives in that space.

Usually, I whisk whatever sweetener I have on hand directly into the custard: honey, maple syrup, brown sugar, white sugar, sometimes a combination. The bread itself naturally softens and rounds everything out, so you don’t need an alarming amount to make it feel indulgent.

Add-ins

This is where the improv starts.

Bread pudding is essentially a blank canvas for whatever bits and bobs are floating around your kitchen waiting for purpose. I’ve folded in candied citrus and lemon zest; cinnamon, vanilla and enough melted butter to make the whole kitchen smell like French toast; chopped chocolate bars with crystallized ginger; stewed apples; spoonfuls of marmalade; and, my favorite this time of year, berries roasted until they collapse into jammy little pockets throughout the custard.

Good bread pudding feels layered. You want softness, brightness, spice, surprise.

Toppings

Think of this as the final flourish before the curtain drops.

For under $5, I would strongly recommend a box of Turbinado sugar, which retains some of its natural molasses and gives desserts this deeply satisfying crystalline crunch. Scattered over the top of bread pudding before baking, it creates these bronzed little crackly edges that make the whole thing feel finished.

I almost always add flaky salt, too, because salt is what keeps sweetness from becoming sleepy. Depending on the direction you’re headed, you could also add cardamom, cinnamon, citrus zest or even mini chocolate chips.

To serve

Whipped cream. Softly whipped, ideally. Maybe a spoonful of jam loosened with warm water. Citrus marmalade. A quick blueberry sauce bubbling away on the stove while the bread pudding cools.

Flexible. Forgiving. Extremely delicious.

And here is my favorite current version:

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