Repost Tuesday: last night I was busy having a wonderful meal with Andra and MTM Watkins on the banks of the Thames. Neither of us spent any of the time, there on the banks of the Thames overlooking St Paul’s, blogging.Therefore: here is the nearest to a culinary post I ever wrote.
Today was a day which shouted “pie!” at the top of its voice.
Pies are part of history, ours and everyone else’s.
Take a landmark journey Phil and I used to make up to his sedate Victorian Seaside hometown. In Britain, we make a meal of travel. Perhaps because the British Isles, from Lands End to John O’Groats, spans just 986 miles, we grumble endlessly about even an hour’s journey.
We had a landmark: a place where we would phone Phil’s Mum and say, get the kettle on. We’ve braved four hours in the car. Put the meat-and-potato pies in the oven. We’re nearly there.
I do not generally like graffiti. It is an intrusion and an outrage. But our landmark was a bridge that went over the motorway, and on it, emblazoned in huge writing were four iconic words: “The pies, the pies!”
Somebody, somewhere, had taken the trouble to climb to the precarious heights of the bridge, teeter with a can of spray paint and write this timeless truism.
The Pies.
By the time we reached Phil’s parents, the real pies would be waiting, steaming, with baked beans on the side. And while I can sense my culinary cyberfriends wincing even from this great distance, may I say these pies were king among junk food, and their little orange pulse accompaniments with them.
I have in front of me a singular pie recipe. It was published in 1598 in a book called Epulario – The Italian Banquet.
“To Make Pie That the Birds May Be Alive In them and Flie Out When It Is Cut Up .
“Make the coffin of a great pie or pastry, in the bottome thereof make a hole as big as your fist, or bigger if you will, let the sides of the coffin bee somwhat higher then ordinary pies, which done put it full of flower and bake it, and being baked, open the hole in the bottome, and take out the flower.
“Then, having a pie of the bigness of the hole in the bottome of the coffin aforesaid, you shal put it into the coffin, withall put into the said coffin round about the aforesaid pie as many small live birds as the empty coffin will hold, besides the pie aforesaid.
“And this is to be at such time as you send the pie to the table, and set before the guests: where uncovering or cutting up the lid of the great pie, all the birds will flie out, which is to delight and pleasure shew to the company.”
The idea to put live birds in a pie was coined by the Italians – which is predictable – but the barmy British welcomed it with open arms.
Poor birds. It cannot be easy to live, for however short a sojourn, in a pie. I am sure that when the time came to make good their escape, they did so with all speed. To the delight of all gathered round.
A wealth of pie memories, and centuries of pie history, weighed heavily upon me as I settled to cook my morning pie today.
Steak casserole was set to slow cook throughout the morning, and I made pastry to cool in the fridge. And then, Maddie and I went out shopping.
When we arrived back, I went to make my pie: and remembered I had left my rolling pin at work. It was in the school kitchen, and absolutely no good to me whatsoever.
I used a wine bottle. I couldn’t get the pastry thin, and every now and then there would be a pastry ripping incident which left me cursing.
Somehow I manhandled a sheet of pastry onto my filling. And I looked down, and saw that it was far too small- which, as anyone who knows pastry will tell you, is calamitous, because pastry shrinks in the oven. There was a real danger my steak and mushroom would end up looking sheepish (if beef can be such a thing) and denuded.
There were unsettling gashes and cracks where gashes and cracks should not be.
I had extra pastry and I set to work, patching and papering. Then I stood back to admire my creation, the work of my hands. My signature pie.
It was a monster. A patched, gruesome parody of all that a pie should be. Look, Maddie, come and look at this, I said. We stood and giggled.
Frankenpie.
Technically, in line with Mary Shelley’s original, I as creator of this monstrosity should don the name: but as always, the pie lumbered off with it.
It went in the oven, it came out of the oven. It now resides within the replete stomachs of four adults, two children and a dog.
Who did not give one fig what it looked like.
Kate Shrewsday 
Now I have a name for my own oddly formed creations! I don’t make light pastry, so I’ve recently adopted a love for frozen puffed pastry. I can handle that! I had a Scottish grandma, so I know all about those meat pies. Unfortunately she just didn’t teach me! And I’m a little shocked about the birds, Kate. I know the children’s rhyme, but I had no idea it was really true. Reposts are great when the writing and storytelling is so engaging! Debra
Thanks Debra. The birds: yes. Amazing what was considered decadent back then. I expect the pies occupants hotfooted it out of human reach as soon as they made it out of the pastry…
Well, sing a song of sixpence, if you will pardon the expletive!
Pies go down very well in our house, but I sometimes cheat and just bake a pastry topping. If settled on top of a serving at just the right angle no-one knows that there wasn’t enough. (But it also helps if the eater is short-sighted)
Jamie Oliver takes the same course of action, Nuvofelt. Sounds like a much saner way of doing things.
Thanks for the recipe… now to find the birds… 😉
I’m sure Provence must have some sumptuous little birds for the occasion, EB 😀
As a very young woman I had a “no-fail” recipe for pie crust, and consistently was able to produce lovely pies with tender, flaky crusts. My pecan pie was often requested for family get-togethers.
Then came the day about 35 years ago that I was attempting said pie crust while in a bit of a time crunch–the more I tried to roll it, the uglier it got (and everyone knows the first rule to working with pastry is DON’T overwork it). Finally, in utter frustration, I wadded the entire mess and pitched it at the backsplash behind the counter! My boys watched in horror; eyes the size of dinner plates . . . Then we all burst into gales of laughter. I cleaned up my mess, and we bought a pie. In years since I have relied solely on Mrs. Smith or the Pillsbury Doughboy for piecrusts. Much less drama. 🙂
Good idea, Karen 😀 Life is just too short, isn’t it?
Hope you had a lovely visit with Andra and MTM! Thanks for the FUN Frankenpie repost.
You’re welcome, Nancy.No pies were eaten last night opposite St Paul’s….
I, too, am reminded of two dozen blackbirds. I never dreamt that they actually did that kind of thing.
A good-tasting pie is a thing of beauty, never mind the appearance or origins. Although I would prefer not to know one came from Sweeney Todd.
In fact, you have probably created a tradition whereby in years to come your offspring will turn noses up at offered pies, as lacking the character your efforts once displayed!
One would hope it worked like that, Col. When I was young I would have turned my nose up at my mum’s home made pie for a Ginsters or a Fray Bentos. Ah, the heady culinary adventures of the seventies…
MTM Watkins. I may just have to refer to him as that from now on. It has a certain proper feel to it. Glad you all got to meet up and have your find dinner overlooking the Thames…. while I slaved away here to make an ill-received supper for my family. Maybe next time I shall bake them all into a pie. Or a gingerbread house.
Mmmmm! Glorious Pie! My one love! I bet that Franken Pie was devoured with gusto!
It certainly was, Belle. Now….shall I make another….
Truly, a family after our own heart. Once, when we visited MTM’s Wisconsin family, we drove four hours out of the way to eat pie. Norske Nook. Osseo, Wisconsin. MTM even bought one for ‘his sister’ as a gift, and ate most of it himself while we were at her house.
Pie is simply comfort food for the Gods, isn’t it, Andra? MTM has taste…
Four and twenty blackbirds set before the king!
Ah, I’ve made a Frankenpie or two in my time, Kate.
Then there was the pumpkin pie, which needed to be moved to a different part of the oven one Thanksgiving morn. I took it out and managed to drop it, which was bad enough, but, it wasn’t yet cooked and spayed hot pumpkin all over the kitchen, especially the ceiling. Now, tell me, would birds have made such a mess? I think not.
Probably not: my mind is boggling over all that hot pumpkin! Oh, for a steam cleaner!
Perfect pies are for the birds, Kate, yours looks good enough to eat 🙂
And that, coming from you, Cindy, is a huge thumbs up 😀 Thank you.
Dear Kate,
Truly I never knew all those long years ago–75–when I chanted, “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie” that anyone ever actually did this!
I learn something new every day. That’s the wonder of aging.
And if I weren’t a vegetarian, I’d envy you that Frankenpie that sat within your stomachs so willingly.
Peace.
Must begin work on a vegetable pie fit for a king, Dee….
I’d give you a chocolate covered fig for a piece of that pie! As another commented…who knew that 4 and 20 blackbirds were held captive in a pie crust!!
Teeheehee – you are the frankenpiemaker 🙂 I’m sure it was delicious and now I want pie!!!!! One hour drive is nothing in this neck of the woods.
Our with the pastry! Pie makers of the world, unite!
I love pie. Almost any kind. And Frankenpie is perfectly acceptable. 🙂
It tastes just the same as conventional pie, Elizabeth 😀
it is the taste that counts! Dave and I have been to Lands End 🙂
A tasty pie does make up for a multitude of sins, Tandy 😀
Aww I love making pies, can’t do it where we live at present as the excuse my landlord calls a kitchen simply doesn’t have a worksurface to speak of with which to do the business!
You have me craving pie now, think I might just pop down to the chippy for the first time in years and treat myself!