A pie with apples, and cheese, and biscuits, and butter, and some good stories, and some Seamus Heaney, and an unexpected August storm.
“The most enormous and beautiful pie in the world. It was covered all over, top, sides, and bottom, with rich golden pastry. I took a knife from beside the sink and cut out a wedge. I started to eat it in my fingers, standing up. It was a cold meat pie. The meat was pink and tender with no fat or gristle in it, and there were hard-boiled eggs buried like treasures in several different places. The taste was absolutely fabulous. When I had finished the first slide I cut another and ate that, too.”
My grandparents are dying and the world is teetering on the brink of what Twitter keeps calling World War Three and the anxiety is back, kicking and screaming WE TOLD […]
Each Peach Pear Plum, I spy..an enormous venison and plum pie, with hearts on the top, and enough for everybody. This is a lovely pie.
Here is a secret: it gets better. It always gets better, or at the very least it gets easier, and it is getting easier for me, thanks to the endless bounty and kindness of the NHS. It gets better, and I am getting better, and to celebrate I made these brownies.
This crumble is either distressing because the idea of nectarines in a crumble is inherently wrong; or because it was written in a hospital waiting room. Really, though, like hospitals, nectarines in crumble are brilliant. This crumble has nectarines, and walnuts, and whiskey, and marzipan, and it may be the best thing I’ve ever invented.
She hears there’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart, spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt that carry but half sense. This, then, is a pie of half-sense, and of remembering. Bake it, and remember. I was all out of pansies, and I haven’t seen a columbine in years, and cooking with rue seemed foolish: but the other things are there, and they are very good.