This is a lubbly jubbly, knees up Mother Brown, cor blimey Guvnor kinda pie blog. For National Pie week, I celebrate the creme de menthe, the pie of all pies, the mighty Pie and Mash.
Had it? Enjoyed it? Never tried it? You haven't lived. I like a steak and kidney pud, a chicken, leek and mushroom pie, my fancy schmancy braised lamb and redcurrant creation as much as the next woman but for the Goodes', a pie craving can only really be fulfilled with a double helping of the good stuff. Here you go Reader, something to drool over
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| A 'Single' |
Started off in the East End, as all good things tend to, as an economical, portable lunch brought from a cart, before the shops popped up. And thank god they did. Where would Lou and I be without our Saturday fix? It was my first solid meal as a baby, and I'm pleased to say that this tradition has been continued, and dare I say, improved upon. Aged nine, he's not content with just a single pie/single mash...devours a double helping, no sweat.
My childhood was filled with Saturday's at these marble-tabled palaces. A beef pie, 'hold the eels', a portion of mash, scraped onto the slide of the plate, liberally covered with liquor. Liquor as in a heavenly mix of eel stock and parsley. The rush for the table before it got cold. The grabbing of the spoon and fork. Never a knife. We laughed at those with a knife. So unaware of the traditions...
Visits to the now-closed shop at Ridley Road Market with my beloved grandparents are a memory never to disappear. The Bond's did not dine out regularly; for them, nothing could beat a family meal at home; a portion of Ridley Road's finest almost lived up to their scrutiny. It was dissected and discussed with a fervour not known to many, before or since. How's the pastry, Emma? Liquor ok? Mince minced adequately?
This was accompanied by a running commentary of one or another convos: "How pies used to be in the good old days" and "Our Friday night dinner". "So, we'd have the soup, then the chopped liver, then the chicken, then a pudding, then cakes if we were peckish". No wonder I am the way I am!
Tearing myself away from nostalgia, and back to 2012, am pleased to report the Pie and Mash shops are still going strong in the heartlands of Essex and the East End. For a full list and ratings, visit http://www.pie-and-mash.com/index.shtml and start planning those visits now. If you can't wait that long, get your order in at http://www.pieshop.co.uk/
Seems us easties just can't get enough of it. Lou and I jumped for joy at seeing the lovely Phil Thompson snazz it up for Great British Menu. He woz robbed. Loved seeing this blushing bride's wedding reception too http://www.london24.com/news/dagenham_couple_turn_to_pie_and_mash_after_tying_the_knot_1_1219618 and of course, not forgetting the Towie peeps' Pie and Mash pool party, god bless them. Just take a butchers at those bad boys!
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| A 'Double' |
Seems like Tuesday was a bad hair, bad body and bad clothes day, all wrapped up in one. A single tweet triggered a chain of events which led to me being compared to a soap star...and not the fit type.
The tweet in question referred to recent research which said that "looking in the mirror does make people anxious".
Who knew? http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2097717/Looking-mirror-DOES-make-anxious-looks.html
38 times a day?? Tell me who. Seriously, who would look in the mirror every 40 minutes on average? I do a quick toothpaste check, then I'm outta there.
So this research got me thinking. On a good day, I don't think I'm too shabby. No need to respond, Reader. Trouble is, there's been a few situations lately that are making me think a little more effort is required.
Situation one. Picture it in your head. School run whilst wearing my "slouching" trousers aka "nocturnal" trousers aka pyjamas. You'll be relieved to know I didn't get out of the car. Lou was.
A modicum of self-respect forced me to change clothes and go to my Tuesday club. We all know what a Tuesday club is, don't we.... Walked in, and they asked me if I'd just got out of bed. Err, no... Made up some crap about not feeling well, but I'd got the message, loud and clear.
Situation two took us to my bestie's house. The townies were off for a brisk walk in the countryside. Lovely. The Sandringham forest was delightful, the snow-covered landscape picturesque and then there was me. Me and my borrowed wardrobe. A pair of trainers from my sister, a coat of my brother's, and a scarf we'd found on a Tube once. Hugo Boss scarf, mind. But still Stig of the Dump.
Now, a thrown-together outfit can look great on some people. But the clothes need to be clean. Ideally ironed. And with a semblance of colour co-ordination. Not some hotpotch of items chosen on the basis of whether is it too horribly stained and if it fits or not. I'd ended up looking like a sack of spuds. The bestie doesn't judge, I know....but still. Not a good look.
These thoughts were playing in my mind, when the ritualistic viewing of EastEnders started. My son, knowing the way to Mummy's heart, gave me his version of a compliment. "Mummy, you are more beautiful than Heather Trott." You know Hev, but for non-'Enders fans, here she is http://eastenders.wikia.com/wiki/Heather_Trott
Really Lou? Really? Don't you see me as a Jane, a Tanya? Hell, even a Zainab. But not Heather. Purlease.
But actually, my boy may have a point here. I have more things in common with Hev than I initially realised.
We both love Wham and Mr George Michael
I had a cat called Pepsi; she's got a mate called Shirley
Us two like our grub
And we both live with a man called Andrew.
Meet my sister from another mister, Miss Heather Trott!
*This post is in no way meant to be critical of Cheryl Fergison, just my dress sense!
