Pork pies

I find a profound satisfaction in pulling a proper, hand-raised pork pie from my oven, a triumph that completely eclipses the sad, squidgy discs I see in the supermarket chiller aisle. Those shop-bought packs, usually hovering around two pounds for a multipack, are a masterclass in culinary disappointment. They rely on heavily processed, mechanically recovered meat, artificial preservatives, and a pastry that tastes distinctly of cardboard and despair. When I make them from scratch, I reclaim a cornerstone of British culinary heritage. Originating in the medieval counties of Leicestershire and Lincolnshire, the traditional Melton Mowbray style pie relies on a robust, hand-raised hot-water crust and a highly seasoned, coarsely chopped pork filling, bound together with a rich, homemade pork stock jelly. The magic lies in the technique. I love how the hot-water crust is uniquely pliable when warm, allowing me to mould it into freestanding cylinders without a tin, though it demands confidence and a gentle touch to avoid tearing. The most common pitfall I see is rushing the cooling process; the pie must cool completely so the natural gelatine in the stock can set into that glorious, savoury jelly. Another frequent mistake is overworking the pastry or using meat that is too lean, which results in a dry, crumbly filling. When I commit to the time-honoured method—rendering my own fat, mincing my own shoulder, and clarifying my own stock—I create a snack with a glorious, crimped golden crust and a deeply savoury, succulent interior that no factory could ever replicate.

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