They wheeled out a trolley covered in tattered, stained sheets, which the attendant plucked off with a practised flourish. She wore mismatched clothes. A summer skirt with a novelty sweater and open-toed sandals. It was January, for God’s sake. Her arms were stiffly crossed over her chest in a poor imitation of piety. Her skin was grey and waxen, her eyes blue pools staring into nothing. The family gathered to drop warm tears on to her cold cheeks. All except me.
It was the last time I saw my mother.
I hadn’t wanted to see her body. I’d wanted to remember her the way she was when I’d seen her last. But Dad, broken and bereft, had insisted and I didn’t know how, in that moment, with so many emotions zipping hither and thither like gnats on a river evening, to do what I felt was right for me. So I went in.
Maybe it’s a generational thing. Dad always wanted to visit a body before it was buried. When Gran died, and Mum was too sick to travel to the Isle of Man for the funeral, he had asked me if he should take a picture of Gran’s body so he could show it to her. “No!” I said, shocked at what I saw as morbidity. But to him, it was a last goodbye.
To me, standing in that awful room, there was no one here to say goodbye to. Mum was gone, and all that remained was a husk dressed in an outfit that – excuse me – she wouldn’t be seen dead in. Another reason I knew she was gone.
I tend to save my grief for later. And I tend to find myself helping others through the worst of it, knowing I’ll take my turn in private when I know they’re done.
But that night, I needed something to take that awful image of Mum’s body from my eyes. I needed to conjure her: my way to say the goodbye that Dad had said that afternoon.
I made her steak and kidney pie.
Relatives sat around with red-rimmed eyes and large glasses of wine, looking dazed. Dad was like a man who had lost something he’d assumed would always be there. They needed to be fed.
This was the first thing, the only thing, that came into my mind. I didn’t have a recipe – Mum hardly ever wrote anything down. I just cooked it. It was almost as if she were there, guiding me. It was perfect – just like hers. We were quiet, all eating, all consumed by memories. Good memories, with a few smiles, because that’s what good food does. It’s evocative and healing. It shows love and kindness. It is life-affirming.
Something similar happened when Dad died. Again, it was the night before the funeral – always a tough, uncomfortable time, when you are dreading and yet longing for the next day to be done. I thought we could celebrate Dad’s life by eating all his favourite dishes. I made Thai fish cakes, green curry, pork belly and ginger curry, a som tam (papaya salad) and, of course, steamed jasmine rice. He loved the smell of rice. And again, we started to smile and tell tales, and reminisce about those long-ago Thai days, fishing off the beach or telling dirty jokes, barbecuing and boating.
When someone dies, it is always hard to find the right words of comfort, even within families. We may have lost the same person, but that loss is unique to each of us, just as each of our relationships is uniquely ours. And when a parent dies, it is not just the person who is gone, but a slice of a collective memory, too. For none of us remembers everything. We rely on each other in a family to fill in the stories so that, together, we remember more. When we write things down, we preserve them. And though the things not written down seem often more alive – they evolve in each telling as new memories are added or older ones embellished into something funnier or sadder – in the storyteller’s death, we lose them altogether. Gone now are the memories of my mother as a girl, of my father’s evacuation from south London in the war. Gone, too, are the stories of the culture shock that shaped them, from Lewisham to Bangkok before the 60s had even swung. I will never hear those tales again. But I will cook this pie. It is my act of remembrance.
Betty’s steak and kidney pie
My mother, Betty, had big blue eyes, cool pastry hands and dangerous curves. This pie is as much hers as I can make it.
Serves 4–6
750g braising steak (I like chuck), sliced into strips
250g lamb’s kidneys, cleaned, cored and cut into small pieces
2 tbsp seasoned flour, plus extra flour, for dusting
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
650ml beef stock
Worcestershire sauce
A dash of Angostura bitters
A dash of anchovy essence (optional)
A few sprigs of fresh thyme, leaves only (optional)
Salt and black pepper
For the pastry
200g plain flour
100g butter, or 50g butter and 50g lard or margarine, cold from the fridge
Iced water, as needed
1 egg, beaten, to glaze
1 Toss the steak and the kidney pieces into the seasoned flour, shaking off any excess, and set aside.
2 Heat the oil in a heavy-based casserole. Once hot, fry the beef in batches until lightly browned all over. Remove and set aside. Now add the kidneys and toss until brown. Remove and set aside with the beef.
3 Add a little more oil, if you like. Add the onions and stir over a low heat until they have started to soften. Add the garlic and cook a little longer. Put the beef and kidneys and any accrued juices back into the casserole and add the stock. Add a good few dashes of Worcestershire sauce, plus the Angostura bitters, anchovy essence and thyme, if using. Bring to the boil, then turn down the heat, cover and simmer very gently for 1½–2 hours, until very tender and the gravy has thickened. Alternatively, pop it into a low oven (160C/325F/gas mark 3) for 1½–2 hours.
4 Remove from the heat or oven and taste. Adjust the seasoning accordingly, then allow to cool completely.
5 To make the pastry, rub together the flour and the butter until you get the texture of fine breadcrumbs. Add a pinch of salt. Add some iced water a little at a time until the pastry starts coming together – be careful not to add too much or your pastry will be tough. We want light, buttery, melt-in-the-mouth pastry. Gather it gently into a ball, wrap well in clingfilm and pop it into the fridge for about 30 minutes.
6 Heat the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. Flour a large surface well. Gently start rolling the pastry out to fit your pie dish, with a little overlap.
7 Pour the filling into the dish – make sure it sits at the rim, or even a bit above: we don’t want the pastry sinking. Wet the rim of the dish and place the pastry carefully over the pie. Seal the edges gently and brush all over with beaten egg. Make a small hole in the middle of the lid to allow steam to escape. If you have any pastry scraps left, make some decorations – Mum would sometimes put leaves and berries on. Put in the oven for 35–40 minutes, or until crisp and golden on top. Serve with mashed potatoes, peas and extra gravy.
Excerpt from Adventures of a Terribly Greedy Girl by Kay Plunkett-Hogge (Mitchell Beazley, £12.99, octopusbooks.co.uk)
