I reckon the little giraffe must have given him a kick (either that or I made him feel guilty by doing my 'hard done by woman' act yesterday in the kitchen) because I got home today to find two massive cottage pies in the oven. Excited isn't the word - I almost did a little wee. Not that you wanted to know that.
I'm now sitting on the sofa stuffled to the extremes, and very very nice it was too. However, I'm also giggling quietly to myself having made a mental list as I was carting spadefuls of pie into my mouth of a few things that made it so brilliantly Irish...
1. Potatoes. Not just your ordinary mashed potatoes, no... potatoes on the bottom, sides AND top of the meat. Enough to take over the world. And my tummy.
2. Onions. Not just in the meat... oh no. Onions sauteed in a pound of butter and mixed in with the potatoes. Onions flaked on top of the potatoes. Onions everywhere.
3. A burnt oven bottom. Put the overflowing dish on a tray to prevent fall-out? Nah... it'll taste better with a slightly burnt smell. (Actually, it did.)
4. Quantity. I think the other half must be termed as a 'feeder'. Not just one pie. TWO pies. TWO WHOLE PIES. For two whole people (and a small giraffe). Not your little one-person pie dishes or anything poncey like that. Two massive casserole dishes.
I loved it. He can definitely stay...
|Two pies. I had a ladylike spoonful. George ate the rest. Honest.|