The Trouble with Jelly

The construction of pork pies is not for the faint of heart. Not only does it require a solemn commitment of time, energy, planning, and sweat, it also demands a certain weathered callousness to the sight, smell, and textural delights of raw pig.

There are three elements to this dish: stock, filling, and pastry. After a scrutinizing the recipes of several chefs, I decided to use Nigel Slater as a guide to filling and stock, while following my cousin Olly’s instructions for pastry (the latter having run his own pie business in a previous life).

It is best to begin with the stock as this requires chilling overnight in the fridge.

1 pigs trotters
bones from pork
1 rib celery
1 onion
1 carrot
1 bunch parsley stalks
4 black peppercorns

Throw all ingredients into a saucepan, cover with water and bring to the boil. Lower to a simmer and cook for 11/2 hours. Strain into a container, allow to cool, and then chill in fridge overnight.

Next day wake up and cancel any appointments for the next 4 hours or call in sick to work. You will need some time. (Not realizing this I spent the morning fiddling with pastry while fretting over what else I should be doing i.e. wrestling with the finer points of Durkheimian sociology for one of my MA classes.  It was fruitless. Pigs trotters hold infinitely more appeal for me than protracted definitions of social phenomena.)

Begin with the pastry:

1/2 lb. lard
1/2 pt. water
1 lb. all purpose flour
1 egg beaten to brush pastry

Put the lard and water in a saucepan and heat almost to boiling. Stir roughly into the flour to make a soft ball of dough (at this point it will smell like a heavenly kitchen in which pounds of bacon are sizzling and mountains of bread are baking in the oven!) Wrap in cling film and allow to cool to just warmer than body temperature.

Meanwhile, make the filling:

1/2 kg boned pork shoulder
125 g pork belly
125 g streaky bacon
2 good sprigs of thyme, finely chopped
2 sage leaves, finely chopped
1 large pinch ground mace
1 large pinch ground white pepper
1 large pinch ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Dice all the meat very finely.  Add all other ingredients to the bowl and mix well.

Preheat the oven to 180C/ F. Lightly grease and flour a dozen muffin tins (or a deep cake tin with removable base for one large pie). When the pastry has cooled until it is just warm to the touch, unwrap it, pull off a third for the lids and set aside, and roll out the rest into a thick round. Cut into small rounds to fit the muffin molds and press into base and sides, making sure there is a small lip around each rim. Fill with the meat mixture leaving a little room at the top. Roll out the remaining dough, cut into lids and poke a small hole in the top of each round. Brush the rims of the filled pastry with beaten egg and press a lid onto each, crimping and sealing well to avoid leaking. This is crucial!

Place muffin tins (or single cake tin) in the oven on a baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes (30 mins. for large version). Lower oven temperature to 160C/ F and continue baking for 60 minutes (90mins.) until pale golden. Brush tops with beaten egg and return to oven for a further 30 minutes.
When the pies are done pull the stock from fridge and remove the layer of fat. You should have a nice jelly beneath. Heat to boiling, transfer to a jug, and then pour into the hole in each lid with the aid of a thin funnel.  Chill pies overnight to set the jelly.

After all the fretting and sweat, and pigs trotters, my pies turned out a minor success: the pastry wonderfully rich and crumbly yet well cooked; the filling far more toothsome and and flavorful than any store bought version. So why to do I not proclaim this a major success? I am not known for culinary modesty.The one disappointment was the jelly.  As I explained above, the theory is simple: pour the liquefied stock through the hole in the top of the pies. If all goes well it will seep across the top of the meat and down the sides creating that ethereal layer between crust and filling. So much for theory. My attempts to inject the stock into my pies failed, even when I ran to the store and armed myself with a fine-nosed funnel. There just wasn’t enough space between the crust and filling. I think this was due either to not sealing the crust well enough or to filling  the molds too full of meat (hence the provisos about leaving room above the filling and meticulously sealing the tops to the bases).

That said, I am generally pleased with the outcome of my first attempt. The pies pass the taste test with flying colors and though they may lack artistry they will provide me with many scrumptious pack lunches over the next few months. It would be ideal for a picnic. I already have a mental image of sitting on top of a hill, blown by the wind and flushed from a hike, biting into the crumbly pie and washing it down with a bottle of cloudy cider.

Trodden

My next project is also inspired by this old island. From medieval kitchens to Sweeney Todd to Melton Mowbray, meat pies have a long, although as we know not always distinguished, history in England.  Today there are a wide variety of sustaining pies that are commonly cooked and sold; the archetypal collection include shepherds pie, game pie, steak and kidney pie, and the type closest to my heart—the pork pie. I won’t bore you with more long-winded eulogies to this estimable food (for that I’ll send you here), suffice to say I have a constant hankering for it and have often thought about making my own. Anything so scrumptious  in its store bought incarnation must be absurdly divine when made from scratch with with the best ingredients and your own sweat and tears, right? (Well, I suppose that’s a debatable statement, but I find the DIY version adds an impalpable element of satisfaction.)

Until now I have been hesitant to try my hand at pork pie; I’d heard that the process is long, complicated, and rather tricky.  But that challenge isn’t going to stop Grub & Grist from the relentless pursuit of culinary prowess! Also, now I’m in England, the task doesn’t seem as daunting. Surely a country of pork pie enthusiasts will reward my efforts with advice, inspiration, and a certain crucial ingredient. . .

Pigs trotters are the all important source of that cool, melty jelly layer between crust and meat.  In the US, finding trotters is an ordeal, as we’re shamefully short on butchers and generally lack an appreciation for any part of the pig that cannot be transformed into bacon. I’d assumed that in the UK the case would be different. Butchers still line many a high street and have not been entirely relegated to a dingy corner of the super market. In fact, there is a resplendent butcher’s shop by the name of H.G. Walter next to my local tube station that always proffers a gleaming display of meats and holds a fistful of awards for its products.

So I wondered over there this afternoon, determined to find a pair of trotters for my pie. The precise tone of my determination, however, would best be described as grim. It was Sunday and I was scowling at the sunlight, clutching my head now and then against the brightness and bustle of London. It had been a festive night accompanied by too many glugs of a deceptively innocent pink drink called a Hollywood. (You’ve always got to watch out when a drink is baptized with a California name. It may look like sparkles and sunshine but beware . . . ) My mood worsened still further when I had trudged to the butchers only to find it shut. Sunday, dammit.

Still fixated on trotters, I began walking towards Fulham on North End Road, hoping to find an open shop.  A cousin of mine had suggested I try a butcher in a poorer area. That made sense, I reasoned, given that poorer areas generally correspond to non-posh-white communities which in turn tend to have richer traditions of cooking with such products as opposed to feeding them to their pets.  I perked up. The road in question looked like just such a place, so I headed straight for the first butcher I spied.

What followed encapsulates the depths to which my compromised mental state had sunk. Walking in the door I stood in line, glancing curiously at the massive, curvaceous knives hung from the back-splash of the butcher’s work counter and sniffing dubiously at the air, potent with the odor of raw meat. “Do you have pigs trotters,” I asked innocently.

The man behind the counter smiled sweetly.  “We don’t sell pig.”

He pointed to as sign plastered onto the display case. “Halal.”

I turned red, garbled apologetically, and slunk out the door.  I need to go home now and stick my head in a dark corner for the rest of the day, I thought. Retreat for the night and try again tomorrow.