The Inconstancy Of Pie- 2024

Being Gammer’s very secret recipe, never written down, and shared with no one.
Memorised by Dora, ages five to fifteen
Written down by Dora Makepeace, barmaid,

Written down again by Mistress Makepeace, housekeeper

Further names to be added as needed

 

 

Ingredients


Flour: about three handfuls, plus a bit more for rolling out
Wheat is best, and white if you’ve got it, but if you’re running low you can add a bit of almond flour without too much trouble.
If you use all almond flour you need more butter, and maybe more egg, and everyone’s going to know who nicked all the almonds.

 

Butter: a good bit.
If you’re using almond flour, you’ll want an even better bit, melted, because almond flour’s fussy like that.

This one’s non-negotiable, at least until someone invents some sort of magical alternative to butter, at which point you can use that.

Your butter should be cold, which would be difficult if we were making this in the Summer, so it’s a good thing it’s Winter right now.
Put it on the window ledge and watch it like a hawk in case some unscrupulous bugger comes along and pinches it.
 

An egg.
Gammer says you can make eggs out of flax seed, but Gammer says a lot of things, and we don’t have any flax seed anyway.
If you have your own chickens you are set. If you don’t, find a neighbour who does and see if they will trade.
If they won’t, do not, I repeat, do not try to squeeze under the wobbly board at the back of the Heggler’s hen yard and steal one; because if the chickens can’t get through then you definitely can’t and your hair will get caught on the boards and then you’ll be stuck, and Billy Heggler will come out and laugh at you.

Better results can be obtained by calling names over the fence, because then Billy Heggler will come and shout names back, and if you’re better at names than he is then he will get cross and start throwing things, and if you keep it up long enough then, after a while, in a hen yard, what’s left to throw is mostly eggs.
Catching them in your skirt is better than in your hands, until it isn’t, and then you have a lap full of egg.

 

Sugar.

You only need a bit of this, which is good if you only have a bit, but not so helpful if you don’t have any at all.

Icing or what they call confectioner’s sugar is best, but if you live where that’s hard to come by then do the best you can.

A good tip is, if you get coarser sugar, and grind it, you get finer sugar, and if you keep going long enough you get something that’s as near as nothing to icing sugar.

You also get a sprained wrist, or, if you’ve already been grinding almonds, two sprained wrists and a guilty conscience because now Gammer’s going to have to get the rest of the ingredients by herself.

 

Small stones and pebbles.

To weigh the pastry down and stop it puffing up.

This part’s optional so feel free to leave it out.

In fact, please leave it out.

Puffed up pastry is a nuisance, but broken teeth are worse.

Gammer says the stones should be collected from the beach at sunset, while communing with the wind and the waves.

I say Gammer can collect her own ruddy gravel, and sprain her own ruddy ankle mucking about on the rocks in the dark.

And spend her own three ruddy hours scrubbing tar off the stupid things.

It’s not really tradition, anyway: Gammer just made it up.

If you’re that worried about your pastry getting above itself, it turns out there are these things called pie weights, that are the right weight to hold down the pastry, and big enough that they won’t sink into the crust and ambush you when you go to take a bite.
It was only a milk tooth, but it’s the principle of the thing.

 

Lemon juice: because Gammer thinks I like a challenge.

I do like a challenge, but only up to a point, and then it stops being challenging and starts being a bloody nuisance.

In this case, the solution to the challenge is to go up to the Inn, where there will be large, red, bleary-faced men who will say things like: “Aren’t you a bit young to be drinking, young Dora?” and then laugh uproariously just as if they’ve said something funny, but there will also be lemon juice, in a bottle behind the bar, and if you look small and hopeful they’ll give you a bit to drink “Like a big, grown up sailor” and you can smuggle some home in your petticoat pocket.

 

Note: put a cup in the pocket first, or preferably a bottle, in case of accidents.

 

Dried fruit and nuts: as much as will fit.

Dried fruit, at this time of year, is whatever you can get. Dates are good if you can find them, raisins are fine if you can’t. Sultanas are just raisins that couldn’t make their minds up, and currants will do in a pinch.
A mix of everything is best.

Nuts means walnuts, for preference, as some nuts get waxy if you bake them, and if you’re going to put a load of almonds into a crust made of almonds then you might as well just get a big bag of almonds and eat them, and save yourself the trouble.

Note: Gammer has never been fond of Logic, and will not be pleased to find the empty almond sack under your bed.

Dispose of it carefully, in case of mice.

 

Sugar: almost a handful this time, but you want it dark for preference, and this time you don’t have to grind it.

Failing sugar, almost anything sweet will do: molasses is best, but if you’re using honey, for the God’s sake ask before you borrow some or we shall have little Belle Morris standing outside the Inn and glaring again, putting everyone off their ale.

Yes, I know that was you that did it, Moll, on account of there wasn’t any honey when I went out to feed the chickens, and when I came back there was half a honeycomb wedged behind the spare trivet and you were standing behind the bar looking smugger than that cockerel when he’s got into the hops again.

And it dripped all over my Ladies’ Household Management.

I still can’t unstick the chapter on Egg Whites And Milk: Natures Gifts Of Glue.

Though, come to think of it, that might not be the honey.

There isn’t a chapter on How To Unstick Books After Your Best Friend Used Experimental Glues On Them And Welded The Pages Shut, which seems a bit of an oversight if you ask me.

 

Rum: just a splash.

Easy if you work in an Inn, less easy when you are five.

Surprisingly, even harder when you work in a well supplied Vicarage, because Norman will look thoughtful, and then he’ll look concerned, and then he’ll start mumbling about “Spirituous Liquors”, and if you don’t get in with an explanation quickly he will disappear to write a sermon on Social Evils And The Demon Drink. Which is entirely out of season, and rude besides when you consider he wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for me, Tom, and Molly.

Better to ask Cecil.

Note: once you have obtained the required splash of rum, stick the rest of the bottle on a high shelf somewhere where it can’t get into trouble.

You may wish to label it “poison”, to prevent future sermons and mislead unwanted guests.

It’s hardly lying, anyway, if you drink enough of it.

If you really can’t get any, do not bother with anything labelled “rum flavouring” as what rum mostly tastes of is molasses, and this thing’s full enough of sugar as it is.

Just add a bit more lemon juice and call it good.

 

Brandy: another splash.

For some reason brandy is considered more civilised than rum.

Whoever came up with that one clearly never worked at an inn.

Do not point this out to anyone.

Do not describe the various, spirited “feats of valour” that have been inspired by said tipple.

Do not attempt the song.

Definitely do not mention the time that smuggler got ratted and lost three casks of calvados off the back of his boat and half the patrons of said Inn got into a drunken brawl that lasted three days and four broken limbs.

It would have been worse, too, if Himself hadn’t swanned in and pinched half a flask to do something inscrutable with his ruddy apple trees.

Without so much as a “by your leave.”

And I’d been saving that cask for a syllabub.

 

Cream: this bit is optional, which is a good thing, because have you ever tried to track down cream, on the Island, half a step from midwinter?

I do not intend to talk about it.

 

Even more sugar: just a pinch.

This should probably be the fine kind again, but use what you have, or don’t bother, because it’s only for the brandy cream, which certain vicars are apparently completely happy to eat, even though they spent four hours on that ruddy sermon yesterday, which had you convinced that you’d have the whole lot of it to yourself.

Spirituous Liquors are fine if it’s dessert, it seems, even an un-flambéed one.

Ginger: the kind in syrup, in a green jar.
Definitely unnecessary, but Norman meant it as an apology, so accept it nicely, and put some in so he knows you mean it.

The rest is bound to come in useful eventually.

 

 

 

Method

 

First build your oven

If you have your own range you can skip this bit.

If not you’ll want to spend some time faffing around the hearth with metal trays and earthenware, and hot coals and bellows, and the like, until you achieve something that will contain and circulate heat.

At some point a cherished favourite tray will slide off the back of the arrangement and stick against the fire-back, where it will jam, sitting at a sharp angle and sending the now roaring flames sideways up the chimney, which will begin to scorch.

It is traditional to misplace the tongs at this point.
Those who have no appreciation for our ancient folkways may wish to borrow someone else’s oven instead.
As this is a busy time of year for kitchens it is useful to have some sort of friendly bribe on hand, or else to have some threat that you can hold over the owner of the disputed range. Handily, you are baking a pie, which can be counted as either threat or bribe depending how bad of a cook you are.

 

Next collect your ingredients and, having collected them, arrange them neatly, ready to be used.

If you have a small child in the house you may send her out to obtain any missing items. This allows her to feel useful, and, more importantly, gets her out of the way of the complete pigs’ ear you just made of the fireplace, and allows you to find the poker without anybody’s curls going up in smoke.

If you are the small child in question, you may note that some of the ingredients require money, a substance with which the average child is not overburdened, even at the best of times.

In the absence of money, ingenuity may be substituted.

 

Having collected all necessary ingredients wash them, your work surface, the small child, and, by this point, yourself again, thoroughly.

 

Chop the fruit and nuts, and the ginger if you absolutely must,  and put them in a clean bowl, along with the brown sugar, or honey, or whatever it is you’re using, and a good slug of rum.

Cover the bowl and place it on a high shelf, ostensibly to stop anyone from pinching any, but really in an attempt to avoid second guessing yourself and adding another slug of rum. 

And then another.

And another.

And so on.

You get the idea.

Flambée-ing is supposed to happen outside the oven, is what I’m trying to say.

 

Once the fruit is out of sight and hopefully out of mind, you can get on with your pastry.

In another clean bowl, assuming you have another clean bowl, combine the flour or flours with the fine sugar.

Now take about two thirds of the butter and chop it into little chunks, working quickly so it can’t melt or get covered in smuts because that ruddy tray’s slipped again and the place is filling up with smoke.

Rub these fragments quickly into the flour mixture, until it resembles breadcrumbs.

If you only have almond flour this year, you don’t have to worry about this bit, and instead should wonder how the heck you’re supposed to melt the ruddy butter when the fireplace is doing its best imitation of a sacrificial pyre, and there’s not a cup of hot water to be had.
Having solved this conundrum, melt the butter, and pour it into the flour mixture, stirring well.

If you have a pinch of salt you can add that too, at this moment, however tradition demands that you should forget the pinch of salt until the pie is in the oven, at which point you may commence the time honoured chant of “Oh, drat the thing: I’ve forgotten the ruddy salt again.”
It doesn’t make any difference to the flavour, anyway.
I assume.
 

Note: be very clear about which kind of flour you are using, and be sure to apply the right method.
If you try to rub cold butter into a bowl of almond flour, you will be stuck with a sticky, gritty, ball of dairy and spite, and Molly will laugh at you.

Also, melting the butter back out of the flour is much harder than you’d think, even in a pretty large kitchen with a pump and a full range.

 

Whatever you did to the flour, now add the egg, a good dash of lemon juice, and a couple of spoons of water, which no one had reminded you you were going to need until this point, so you’re going to have to run to the well and back, quickly, before everything goes wrong.
Or use the pump, if you’ve got one.

If the egg is currently part of an oozing, slippery mass in what was your best flannel petticoat, you should decant this into yet another clean bowl, because apparently we are made of bowls today.
Subtract approximately an egg’s worth from the bowl to use for your pastry.
The rest may be cooked for a late lunch or early dinner, once the pie is in the oven.

If you are using someone else’s oven, it is a good idea to offer to share this meal.
They won’t say yes, because it looks like something a pig threw up, but it will get you a reputation for being polite and eager to please, and also it might put them off claiming too large a slice of the pie.

Once the liquid is in the bowl, fold it all together.
If you don’t know what “fold” means, you can ask, at which point Gammer will bless your pretty little head, the precious. And laugh indulgently. But not actually explain anything.
What “fold” means is you take a spoon, or a spatula, or whatever you’ve got so long as it isn’t the potato masher, and you ever so so slowly lift everything up and over itself, and keep doing that till it’s all combined.
You can ask Gammer why you do all this folding, if you like, and she will tell you “Never you mind,” which is Gammer for “I don’t know.”
Why you really do it is to catch air in the pastry, and make it light and flaky, but you won’t make almond pastry light no matter how much you fold it, and if it gets any flakier it’ll fall apart altogether, so in that case you might as well just grab a fork and stir it.

 

If you made the almond pastry, you can skip the next couple of steps and just squish the stuff into the pie dish as best you can.
This saves a lot of time and bother, which is some consolation for having to eat almond pastry.

Not much, though, it has to be said.
It’s best to grease the tin before you start squishing the pastry in.
It is usual to forget this step until you have already got it half done, at which point tradition demands that you should spend some time debating among yourselves whether to scrape it all out and begin again, or simply continue on your course.
Having agreed to continue on you should finish pressing the pastry into place, then stab it repeatedly with a fork to prevent it from coming to life in the pan and devouring you in vengeance for its delicious brethren.

This done, stick the pan in the oven for two turns of Gammer’s decorative egg timer with the face of the Island God devouring his offerings, or about six minutes by the kitchen clock.

The pastry will now be stuck hard in the pan, allowing you the satisfaction of insisting that you said you should scrape it out and start again: you told them so but they didn’t listen.
It may be retorted that you said nothing of the kind, in which case you should feel free to emphasise the didn’t listen part and, if the occasion calls for it, to hide under the kitchen table and sulk until lured out with some of Gammer’s sugarplums; but this only works when you are five, and if you try it on Molly she will just laugh, and then join you under the table, which is all very well and good, but does not get the pie made.

And also that cockerel was already under there, looking for crumbs, and he did not appreciate having his kingdom invaded.

 

If you did not make the almond pastry, you need to roll the stuff you did make into a ball, then stick it out on the window sill again to think about what it’s done.

You can use this time to clean up, if you want, but keep an eye on the windowsill because folks’ll take anything, this time of year, even a bowl of pastry, and did you hear the Heggler’s had a whole day’s eggs stolen? And that Billy Heggler out there the whole time and swears he didn’t see a thing.

The wise cook, of course, avoids the impulse to gossip.


Once this pastry’s had its time out in the cold, bring it in, flour the table, the rolling pin, and yourself thoroughly, and roll it out as thinly as seems reasonable.
This will invariably be either too thick or too thin, but just do the best you can.

If you have enlisted the aid of a small child for this task, do not tell her to roll it out as thinly as possible, because she will find reserves of strength hitherto unknown in nature and your whole table will be covered in an atom-thick layer of flour paste that will stick like glue and need scraping off with a kitchen knife.

Cut a pie-tin-sized circle of pastry, drop it into the greased pie tin, and proceed as you did for the almond pastry, except clearly you didn’t because you’re making this one.

 

Put the cut-off bits of pastry to one side.
Do not give them to any hopeful children because you’re going to need them later, and besides there’s raw egg in them, and everyone knows raw egg is bad for you.

Which would be a lot more convincing if you hadn’t had two raw eggs with your dinner yesterday. Yes you did, Gammer: I saw you, and you sucked them straight out of the shells without even washing them.

“Teach your Gammer” indeed.

Definitely do not give any scraps to that cockerel, first because raw egg is a little too close to cannibalism, and second because it’ll glue his beak shut and you’ll have to pry it open with a teaspoon.

 

Once the pastry shell has been baked, allow it to cool, remove any rubble, and replace with the fruit-and-nut mixture.
Cut up the remaining butter and drop little blobs all over the surface.

Now take your leftover pastry scraps, cut them out into fancy shapes, and use them to decorate the top of your pie.
If you have a carved pastry stamp in the shape of the Island God triumphing over his enemies, you may wish to use this, but not, and this is very important, not if you are planning to serve your pie for the Vicarage tea.
You can try cutting it into strips and making a decorative lattice instead, but experience suggests that what will happen is you’ll get a perfect basketweave to about half way across, then a horrible mess with half the strips shorter than the rest and three of your fingers inextricably plaited into the pastry.

Stars are a nice, non-denominational option, and a lot easier to manage freehand.

Do not even think about trying this step for the almond pastry: your cutouts will sink into the filling and lurk there like soggy icebergs to trap the unwary.

The pie is perfectly good without any sort of lid, and if you cover the thing in brandy cream then no one will notice anyway.

 

On the subject of which.

Once you’ve got your pie assembled and manoeuvred into the oven — replacing the lid and any stray coals with the tongs; you did remember where you put the tongs, didn’t you? Check outside, you might have had them in your hand when you went out — you can get on with the brandy cream.
This bit is entirely optional, or not-even-an-optional, depending on your circumstances and on how likely your intended recipients are to want any.

Which is to say that you don’t have to make any, but if you can you should probably make twice as much as you think you need, especially if Cecil is standing behind you, reading over your shoulder, with a suspiciously innocent expression and a spoon in his hand.


First whip your cream together with the sugar.

Depending on who is around to help you, this is either a very good, or a very bad time to remember that you have sprained your wrist.
If your assistant is a small child, she will set to enthusiastically, in the process spattering the walls, the floor, the windows, and, rather impressively the ceiling, with a fine spray of cream.

Whatever remains in the bowl is your whipped cream and you should proceed to the next step with extreme caution.
If you are the small child in question, there is little point in pointing out that your wrists are hurt, because Gammer will have gone inexplicably deaf and, if pressed, will only remind you that she took over the ingredient-collecting earlier, and aren’t you better yet?
Do not bother answering, as this is a rhetorical question, even though Gammer’s opinion of Rhetoric is about the same as her opinion of Logic, at least when it’s you that’s using it.
Molly is not much more help than a small child except she probably does it on purpose, Cecil will do an absolutely perfect job which is somehow more annoying than making a mess of things, and Norman will set to with a will, only to then sprain his wrist, so you have to spend the rest of the afternoon looking for ice and bandages, while he insists that he’s “Quite all right, really, no need to make an — ouch — make a ha-ha-how, make a fuss about it,” and if you don’t keep a look out the ruddy pie will burn.

Just whip the stuff yourself and be done with it.

 

Once the cream is thick enough to stand up in its bowl, it’s time to add the brandy.
You only need a little bit, and it’s tempting to just slosh it all in at once, but if you do this you’ll end up with half a bowl of nice whipped cream, and half a bowl brown sludge with lumps in.
Go drop by drop, folding gently as you go, and keep a ladle handy to fend off opportunistic spoons.


Put the brandy cream somewhere cold, ideally with a door you can wedge shut against the barbarian horde, also known as Cecil.
If there happens to be a cockerel wandering around your kitchen you can bribe him to guard your pantry, but watch out or he’ll get a bit too keen on the job, and then you won’t be able to get the cream out either.
Be aware, however that this is somewhat in the line of “set a thief to catch a thief” and there is a strong possibility that if he can get the door open then what you’ll end up with is a bowlful of inebriated feathers.

If this happens, do not hit smack his beak with the ladle as it would not be good for him.

Throw a handful of something out into the yard, and raid the pantry while the guard is distracted.


Once your pie is done, take it out of the oven, set it back on the windowsill, on the inside this time, to cool.

 

Serve with a generous hand, and brandy cream to taste.

 

However, or whether, you make this, may your days be happy, your nights be safe, and the winter be kind to all of us.