The Wickersley Pie
A story of domestic disaster, and set within the Yorkshire Pie Triangle of Bramley, Dalton and (of course) Wickersley.
The greengrocer muttered, then tuttered, then uttered, “A half dozen turkey eggs, a pumpkin degutted, Rhubarb, and damson jam, some fresh elderberries, Cinnamon splinters, and wild sweetheart cherries, Rose water, spelt flour, five cardamon roots, Strawbinis and goat curd, a ripe ginger breadfruit, And one jar of organic sweet chestnut honey.” Then he looked up and laughed (as he totted the money) At the not-hidden ladies behind his tin cans, Who whispered and scribbled their ill-gotten plans; Desperate to learn what went into the recipe, Every ingredient, every necessity, Known only to Mrs Claire Manly-Brightthighes, The world’s only maker of Wickersely Pies.
As she paid and collected the recipe order Mrs Manly-Brightthighes saw the Mayor’s youngest daughter Who was hiding her face in this months ‘Country Life’, With Edna O’Grady the pub landlord’s wife Miss Worth and Miss Birch (the equestrian team) She greeted them each with an all-knowing gleam And reminded them all of the upcoming fete, The Pet show, Tombola, Hook-a-duck, Guess-the-Weight, And the bakery auction, most important indeed, All proceeds to raise funds for Badgers in Need. This year she was baking her Wickersley Pie, The recipe passed on by her forebears gone by. With a smile and a nod she made her departures And home just in time to tune in to The Archers.
Oh That Wickersley Pie! Oh that Wickersley Pie! The envy and toast of the W.I. A fragrance your nose simply ached to invite in, And sweet spicy fruit for your tongue to delight in. A crust, oh, so light that it barely felt swallowed. A crispy cooked base so firm and marshmallowed. With cream or with custard or just eaten alone. Instructions so secret, that the curtains were drawn. For five days of steeping and peeling and chilling, Claire set to work on the pastry and filling. Everything weighed out and measured so perfectly. No room for error or actions unfurtively. ‘Til out of the oven all steaming and brown She rested the Wickersley Pie to cool down.
When just at that moment the doorbell went ringing;
Claire’s initial hunch was a suspicious feeling.
For spies had their methods by lens and wiretap
And even pushed periscopes through the cat flap.
Pious house callers with Watchtowers to sell
Could really be buggers - cordon bleu infidels!
With curtains, blinds, cat flap and all locks assured
Claire answered the front door with both latch chains secured,
But somehow completely forgot about Daniel
Her constantly greedy and daft Cocker Spaniel,
Who smelled a pie smell and became overcome
And fancied a change from his Pedigree Chum.
By the time Claire was back in the kitchen again
She found Daniel was covered in warm pie and shame.
With a barely hid cry she cleaned up the kitchen
And calmly went over her options remaining.
To make a new pie for the twelve o’clock deadline
Would now be impossible due to her canine.
Not to enter the auction would leave her bereft.
The fruit filling had gone, but some pastry was left.
In fact, just enough to make a top crust
And thus keeping the secretive contents in trust.
Which now would be swapped with ... what could fill the hole?
Claire thought for a moment and then chose toilet roll.
Whilst cooking she thought as the seconds ticked by
No way could she let someone buy this fake pie,
But must buy it herself and then remove the proof.
She needed some form of disguise, in all truth.
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