Apple Pie

An unusual occurrence for me today,  I baked an apple pie. Three of them, in fact.

And? You might reasonably reply. You are, are you not, a professional chef? Making food is pretty much your thing, no? Perhaps if you had been wrangling stallions at Appleby Horse Fair, or been improbably called up to the England Test team, that would be noteworthy, that, I would pay attention to, but cooking a thing? Pfft.

And this would be a reasonable response. But the thing that makes the baking noteworthy was the reason.

We do a lot of wakes at the pub, we're the nearest place to the crem and we can hold a lot of people. I'm used to booking them in, and generally try to  do so with as little fuss or questioning as possible, we have a few off the peg options and people generally plump for one of them. The way I see it, this is not a time you want to spend fretting about canapés.

So normally it's pick an option and then I'll make sure there's plenty of it, for one of the most certain things in hospitality is more people turn up for free food than the number it's booked for. And you don't want to be running out of food at a time like this.

(You also get plenty of people asking innocently if any money's been put behind the bar, before ordering a tap water when they discover it hasn't. Does tend to colour your view of humanity at times, this job)

Weddings, on the other hand, are normally micro-managed to an exasperating degree, but that's another blog altogether.

In this instance, the apple pies were for a wake. Again, probably not earth-shattering news to you, but bear with me, there is a point to all this. The thing is, they're not on the menu, in fact they're never on the menu. We're a pretty busy place, we make everything from scratch, and generally, none of us has time to make pies. Tarts yes, crumbles yes, pies no. They require space to make, you need to clear the decks to do them, so when I uhmmed and ahhed when the elderly gentleman booking the wake asked for apple pie and custard, it wasn't through any desire to be awkward, we'll always try and accommodate people, it was just wondering where on Earth I'd find the time.

I offered our usual options, but he explained this his late wife (for it was she whose wake it was) was famous for her apple pies, known for them, and it would be something that linked her to the various mourners, who'd all had some at some point.

Well, obviously I was making pies now. And trying to match up to the memory of his dear departed wife's pies. No pressure, then.

So it was that I came in early and stood in my otherwise silent kitchen, baking apple pies with, it's fair to say, a bit more care and attention than I normally would. They were pretty good, I'd like to think I did her proud. I made a spare, so he could take it home with him, he stashed it in his car before anyone could see.

And the point to all this is that it reminded me how food binds us to people, winds through our lives, anchors us to ourselves. Your Mum's chicken casserole, your Dad's barbecues, the first meal you cooked with your girlfriend, it's part of what makes us us. 

And yes, from time to time I'll think of that man, eating his apple pie and remembering his wife, and I'm pleased I was able to help. It's not such a bad old job, sometimes.