The problem with pies

Yesterdays stew went down a storm.  I'm from Darlington in the North East, so it is a stew. If I was a bit posh/from Surrey.. I'd call it a casserole, or a casoulet, or a tagine. I'm not which is why its just a stew.  Last night we ate it inside giant, homemade yorkshire puddings. The yorkshire puddings where on plates, we might be in the north east but we're not that primitive (we even used cutlerly - plastic but hey, we're hardly royalty). We ate our fill however there was still an extremely large pot of the Stew left.

At this point I feel its important to advise you off the content of said stew. Lean cubed beef, onion, carrot, leek, turnip, parsnip, garlic, oxo cube, worcester sauce, tomato puree, boiling water and the secret ingredient (you're expecting me to say a bay leaf, or some chopped thyme), a good pinch of heroin (cheers everyone up).

Anyway back to the stew (I was lying about the heroin) This morning I realised that in the name of not wasting food, I would do something with the 4 gallons of stew that were left. I whipped my bero book out, and knocked up a big ball of short crust pastry and made a pie with the left over stew.

I placed the lid on the pie and picked up the dish in order to knock up the pie. For those not in the know, knocking up the pie does not involve my husband doing something unsavoury, it simply means cutting down, along the edges of the pie, til the discarded pastry drops off, and you have a neat edge.

At this point I looked at the heap of discarded pastry. I had a fancy to roll it out and fashion the words PIE, then clag it to the pie lid with egg, however Phil (the husband), noticed the glint in my eye and addressed it in his usual charming manner. I paraphrase but he said something along the lines of 'please, my beautiful wife, your pie is already a glorious example off rustic homebaking, I am desperate to taste your wares, so be a love and pop it in the oven'. (We all know that what he really said was 'Don't start p*ssing about with faffy leaves, just put it in the sodding oven)

So 20 minutes later the pie was ready, we ate it, and it was very nice.

The eldest son, Joe, aged 15 had gone to Newcastle with his friend 'Mouse' (I'll explain at some point), at the crack of half eleven, and at 7pm he called to say he was back in town and would be home shortly.

He arrived home, dressed like someone who has fallen into a jumble sale.

NOTE: Eldest son considers it acceptable to wear very tight polo shirt (ralph lauren polo - costs the same as a small house in Wakefield - saved up for it himself), strange pair of mustard coloured trousers, massively baggy crotch (suggesting a full nappy concealed within), hanging off his arse, tapering to tight, legging style legs with elasticated bottoms (useful if contents of full nappy drip down legs, will not end up in ridiculous shoes), ridiculous espadrille style shoes, would not look out of place in Miami Vice, worn with no socks. Whole ensemble leads to creepy, swaggering style walk (presumably because a) t-shirt too tight to breathe b) trousers about to fall off ones arse leaving one naked from waist to knee c) shoes likely to fall apart if put on the ground with a normal footstep)

So, in he swaggers, and I ask him if he wants any tea. Apparently he's spent £18 on costa/starbucks hot chocolates and is therefore not hungry. He does however advise me that he may be hungry later.

He then receives a phonecall which he leaves the room to take. Believe it or not at that point, I have an overwhelming urge to clean the living room door. I clean it quickly and check it feels clean by pressing my ear against the door, and am quite frankly shocked to realise I can hear Joe's conversation.  It seems he has arranged to walk into the village with Mouse who needs to visit the shop. I stew on this (no pun intended at all, really )  One hour later I tweet:

'Baked steak pie for tea. Big son wasn't hungry. He's gone out. If he comes back with a shop bought pie, I'll smash his face in'

Violent as that may seem, I was joking. Surely Joe wouldn't pay for rubbish shop bought pie when there is a wholesome home 'BLOODY' baked pie at home.  I chuckle to myself, knowing that there is simply no way he'd spend his hard scrounged money on plastic pies.

Then as if by magic jumble sale Joe appears. I ask him if he'd like some tea, he surely must be hungry. Just before he answers, I notice he has gravy up his nose.

'No thanks, I've had a couple of CO-OP pies'

My knuckles still hurt.