Whispers from the Pie Tin
written by: Verity Mason
I miss my mother’s homemade pie. Tender steak, rich and slow-cooked, melted in your mouth. We feasted on it with smooth mashed potatoes and her unique gravy recipe.
Today, I found myself daydreaming through a sky of flaky crust and freshly cut herbs. I drifted past a bull lounging in a wingback chair braided from pastry, his flanks crossed with casual grace. He wore a crimson smoking jacket, a monocle balanced elegantly over one eye. Sipping from a steaming cup, he read a newspaper printed on sheets of filo pastry.
Headlines loomed in crusty letters: “Pie Prices Rise” and “Secret Recipe Leaked?”
A choir of roasted parsnips rose into view. Their caramelised edges gleamed amber as they carried the melody of “American Pie” through the savoury air, each note wrapping me in that familiar song.
I reached out, catching a buttery flake of crust. Its aroma tugged me back to the kitchen where my mother’s nimble fingers had worked magic with flour and love.
Last week, I found a note inside the pie tin, folded like a treasure map.
It read: If you’re reading this, you owe me a pie.
My mother always had a wonderful sense of humour.
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