O flower of Scotland…

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, apparently and this is also the case with food. Two incidents occurred last week to hammer this life lesson home, the first I was surprised about and the second, overjoyed.

SPUDS

Left-over Monday had come and gone, Take-out Tuesday was luscious and luxurious and when Wednesday arrived and I had been working late, there wasn’t much left in Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard other than some curling heels of cheddar, questionable excess beef stock (home-made), freezer-burned peas and a bag of past-their-best Dublin Queens.

“Tonight, we’re having chip, pea and gravy,” I told the troops.

“Yeeeey!”

“Only except the chips, we’re having spuds instead.”

“Yeeeey!”

This second yeeeeh surprised me somewhat, seeing as how I assumed the dearth of chips would be deemed a severe disappointment. Personally, I was disappointed, as I would have like a chip butty.

Anyway…

The spuds were washed and steamed and the stock transformed into gravy and before you could say, “Maybe we should have done chips after all,” we were sitting down to the mash, peas and gravy and, to my utter astonishment, the troops were loving it.

“This is the best dinner we’ve had in a month,” the youngest trooper said around a mouthful of mash.

“But what about the enchiladas from last weekend?” I asked, incredulous.

“What about the chicken fried rice from Friday night?

What about that home-made tomato sauce with the garlic and basil that we had through pasta that last day?”

“This is better,” was the simple reply.

Despite being utterly gobsmacked, I swiftly concluded that since we only have spuds or mash once in a weekly blue moon, they are appreciated and savoured all the more. Come to think of it, sometimes that might even be a fortnightly blue moon – thus deepening the enjoyment even more.

PIES

After Wednesday’s Not-Chips Peas and Gravy, my sister-in-law arrived with a bounty, straight from the glens of Caledonia. In short, she had been to Scotland on her hols and, knowing that I am partial to a good delicacy or two, returned with a bag of various Scottish pies.

There were steak pies, there were chicken curry pies (an iteration of the Scotch pie I had hitherto not tasted) and my all-time favourite Scotty tart, onion pies.

”Ye dinnae ken how braw they are tae me,” I told my philanthropic sis-in-law. Roughly translated from Auld Scots that means, “Those look mighty good.”

I continued, “The morn’s morn, wae too slices a’ breed, I’ll make masel a bonnie wee piece.”

Needless to say, everyone present was looking at me with concerned expressions but I didn’t care: I had pies.

Now, under normal circumstances, I would insist that the little humans try any new dish and/or pie which arrives in the hoose.

Although this was not normal circumstances. I hadn’t had a Scotch pie in… actually, I can’t remember the last time I’d had a pie and so I wasn’t keen or forcing them on people who wouldn’t appreciate them as much as I.

As we have already postulated, absence makes the heart grow fonder and so, without further ado, I retired the pies to the fridge for future consumption.

Ubiquitous in Scotland’s supermarkets – or as the natives might say, “Aw iver the bliddy place” – pies are as common as sausages are here.

As you can see from the photo, my preferred method of onion pie consumption is to have one warmed through in the oven and then served up with a side of beans; although, to be honest, I can also eat them cold, straight out of the fridge, on the hoof.

So what were they like?

In a word: Fandabidozi.

Since I hadn’t had them in an age, the pies (especially the onion pies) were a real delight. The hot water crust pastry was crisp and moreish and the filling deep and spiced and inimitable.

Despite them being quite filling, I ate every single pie myself and do you know, I wasn’t one bit sick of them by the end.

You’re not travelling to Scotland in the near future by any chance?