Puff Pastry

Don suggested a steak pie. A good meal to share with our unexpected and very welcome friend. That and a good old fashioned syrup steamed pudding: great comfort food for a cold February day.

Except that I have no confidence in my abilities with puff pastry. Even the bought-in-the-shop kind. I roll it out lovingly, baste it with egg yolk and put it in the oven in high hopes – which is the only thing that usually is high about my flat and very un-puffed pastry.

OK, I thought. I’ll buy the pre-rolled kind. The directions on the packet instructed me to bake it on a tray rather than on the meat, so I did, and I was so proud of the result. Browned, flaky, risen. When I cut it into squares and placed it gently on the meat on the plates, it looked beautiful. Professional even.

The only trouble, I was told, was that it lacked that sort of gooey juiciness that happens when the gravy mingles with the bottom of the pastry as it bakes in the oven. A sort of magic transfer of flavours happens when the two meet, a magic which just wasn’t there when the two were kept separate.

Hmm. Next time I’ll ignore the packet and bake it on the pie, and hope for the best.

Segregation is never a good idea. Mixing cultures and religions and races is a great way to enrich the flavour of society. Maybe it falls flat sometimes; maybe it looks a little less than perfect, but I think God looks down at the meal we make of our lives, and loves the less than perfect, the slightly messy and flat, because the fragrance and flavour are irresistible. 

For God so loved the world...the whole world.