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What the world needs is pie for breakfast
Published November 1, 2009
Never mind why, but I was once the guest of an English family who baked me an authentic Welsh meat pie. It even had my initials on the crust, an honor I had never before received and haven’t since.
It seems that women in Wales have been sending their menfolk down into the mines for centuries with pies — called pasties — for their lunches. Since they all look alike — the pies, not the men — the women cut strips of dough and bake their husband’s or son’s initials into the top crust.
When I lifted that pie up to take a bite, the assembled multitude — there were three people there, I think, and a dog — laughed. It was the fact that I was going at my Welsh Pasty from the wrong end that tickled them. Except for the dog, who showed no interest whatsoever.
Here’s why the direction from which you attack one makes a difference. When I had it turned around right the first filling I came to as I chomped away was pure vegetation, a firm, bristly bit of greenery that was bathed in a sweet, vinegary dressing. Then, a little further on, I found myself in a pungent gravy full of savory pieces of lamb and parsnips and English peas. Finally, I plowed on into a fine batch of baked apples — swimming in sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg — that concluded the three-course meal.
I’m here to tell you that was a filling repast, and a delicious one. I’ve told that story to no telling how many people and I’ve never found anyone who ever saw or devoured one of those gastronomic delights. But I did, and I wouldn’t mind having a go at another one. It just seems, to me, that whoever dreamed up enclosing a salad, an entrée and a dessert in one edible envelope should be considered a food hero.
Chefs and food critics usually look down their upturned noses at British cuisine. But I — admittedly no culinary expert — found much to like there, especially in pubs. Pub grub is very often served in a thick crust, whether it is Beef Wellington or any number of pies, like Shepherd’s, Cottage or Lobster. I even tucked into a rabbit pie once in a pub in Canterbury that hit the spot nicely on a blustery afternoon, especially with a pint in a cozy booth beside a fireplace. I never worked up the courage to try a steak and kidney concoction; the stench that always permeated the room whenever someone at another table dug through the crust was a sufficient deterrent.
It should have come as no surprise to me that I would be a big fan of meat pies in England. Back when I was a gangly East Texas lad I attended my share of funerals in my hometown. And since country folk were both caring neighbors and good cooks, the homes of grieving people became veritable smorgasbords of home-cooked funeral fare. I personally counted a funeral a success if there was a big tureen of deep dish chicken pot pie, buttery and rich and golden, with a flaky crust. Not to mention, of course, countless fruit and cream pies on the sideboard.
Let’s face it. Just about anything, short of kidneys and eels, baked in a pastry crust gets my seal of approval.
About the time that I was chowing down at all those funerals, I read a short story in junior high school by Stephen Vincent Benet. It was “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” and if you are of a certain age I’m betting you read it also.
In that tale, the great Webster goes toe to toe with Lucifer over a New England farmer’s soul in a celestial court made up of some of the most dastardly villains in history. After he wins the case, Webster asks Jabez Stone, the farmer who was very nearly consigned to Hades, if there will be pie for breakfast.
That was my favorite sentence in the whole story, and to this day it is the one I remember the best. Because I spent the better part of what was left of that school day wondering if Webster was talking about a sweet pie, like my mother made so well, or a meat one, like I got whenever I was fortunate enough to attend a funeral.
Either way was fine by me; pie for breakfast sounded like a grand idea. But I was never able to sell my mother on it.
Award-winning author Ron Rozelle has written seven books. He teaches creative writing at Brazoswood High School. He can be reached at ronrozelle(at)sbcglobal.net.
© 2009 Ron Rozelle
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