I have no one to blame but myself . . . and those meat-pie-obsessed Acadians
Nothing says December like my non-negotiable and sacred Christmas traditions—going to the mall only to be removed by security for “scaring the shoppers” just because I kick a store display, pull out clumps of my hair and announce, “I don’t know what to buy anyone!”; fabricating braggy news for my Christmas letter; and my all-time favorite – making meat pies from scratch with my bare, delicate hands.
Growing up, the closest thing we had to a meat pie at Christmas was a Swanson Chicken Pie TV dinner. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven with those beige cubes of chicken and wellcooked carrots floating in the embalming fluid gravy. Then I met my future husband, an Acadian – apparently his people are too good for frozen TV dinners and every Christmas Eve they enjoy homemade meat pies. Well, la dee da!
In our first year of marriage, I made a generous and irresistible suggestion to my betrothed, “As you know, cooking makes me feel like
I’m being buried alive in raw sewage, but if you’d like me to spend an entire weekend every December making your foremothers’ hundreds-yearold meat pie recipe, I’ll do it to keep the tradition alive, even if it kills me in the process.” He shrugged and said, “Up to you, dear. I’m fine without them.” Thus, began my annual self-inflicted meat pie-making tradition that has spanned 28 years. I have no one to blame but myself … and those smug, meat pie-obsessed Acadians.
Every Dec. 1, I announce, “I think I’ll make meat pies this weekend!” My husband mumbles, “Oh God … here we go …” to which I respond, “Have you Googled the words “annual” and “tradition” lately? I have no choice!” I spend the next few days shopping for ingredients – a Brinks’ truck worth of beef and pork, a wheelbarrow full of shortening and a pallet of Cabernet Sauvignon. Game on.
I dust off the recipe and shake off the urge to light it and myself on fire. I open one of the wine bottles to wash down a handful of muscle relaxants and then I get to work. I start by dropping the beef and pork roasts into a cauldron big enough to hide a body. While I’m waiting for them to cook, I Google: How to become a celeb and live the life you were meant for.
Next, I remove the carnivorous mess from the pot and shred it. I put it back into the pot and add seasoning. The recipe calls for 2:1 cinnamon/ allspice. I play with this combination for hours trying to make it just right but, in the end, all I can taste is the muscle relaxant coating so I grab a box of salt and free pour.
While I’m at it, I free pour another glass of Cabernet Sauvignon down my gullet for good measure.
I simply adore the ‘no fail’ pastry crust recipe that fails me each and every year. It’s either as malleable as Rebar or so thin and flimsy you could read an X-ray through it. No matter how hard I punch the dough or slam the cupboards, it never works. My husband always comes out from hiding at this point and asks if he can help. I say, “Sure! Maybe you could dig out the Ouija board and ask your great-greatgrandmother what she meant by: Add enough water so it’s not too sticky and not too dry. Also, please tell her I hope she’s turning in her grave right now!”
When it’s all over, I’m usually three sheets to the wind, making it hard to count the grand total of eight meat pies. Yep. I gave up yet another weekend and my mental health for eight pies that look like they were made by a legally blind toddler. I throw them in the freezer but not before posting a picture of them on Instagram with the caption: Blessed to be able to recreate a loving Acadian tradition for my husband. Then my eyes turn black, my head spins and I tell him, “Read my lips: Never again.” Until next year, of course. ’Tis the season.