Shepherd’s Pie on Toast

My mum had a recipe that, to me as a child, felt like the ultimate treat..Two thick slices of white farmhouse bread, topped with leftover shepherd’s pie, smothered in cheddar and grilled until the cheese bubbled and browned.It was then drowned in Worcestershire sauce and eaten on a lap tray while watching Coronation Street.Shepherd’s pie on toast. Absolute bliss.If you’d like to recreate it, the instructions are simple. Take two slices of thick white farmhouse loaf (it can only be this), pile it high with reheated, one-day-old homemade shepherd’s pie, generously cover with cheddar cheese and put under the grill until the cheese is bubbling and caught in several places. Remove from the grill, place on a plate with lashings of Worcestershire sauce and serve on a lap tray – preferably one decorated with an 80’s floral print or pictures of cats. Eat with a knife and fork whilst watching Coronation Street. Bliss.This was a recipe reserved for my parents usually on a Friday night. It was one of the most delicious things I never ate and I promised myself that when I was an adult I too would eat shepherd’s pie on toast every week, as well as Coco Pops for breakfast every morning – because why, when you become an adult, does breakfast have to become so dull?I’m sorry to report I do neither. I realised somewhere around the age of seven that my sweet tooth must have fallen out before my adult teeth came in, and I am not organised enough to make a weekly shepherd’s pie.Meals growing up were on a rotary basis – on reflection a very clever and sensible move by my mum, who made us a home cooked meal every day. Planning family meals is still something I have yet to conquer. Perhaps this is the solution that was there all along – a lesson revisited.Every Sunday we would have a roast dinner, eaten all together in the dining room. Usually chicken which my dad would carve whilst strategically positioned to look out the kitchen window – oddly the chicken whole had far more meat on it than after it had been carved! I would tuck my head under his carving arm, like a bird, waiting to be fed offcuts – all that was usually left was the parson’s nose – which, if you have ever had a roast dinner with me, you will know is my absolute favourite part of the bird. I’ve since learned it’s a delicacy in some cultures and is, in fact, the chicken’s arse.My sister and I would take it in turns to lay the table including placing a crystal cut wine glass out for my mum – and one for us each to pretend with. It was a classic Sunday tradition and would usually be served around two, which meant supper would be a light meal of ‘poppy eggs and soldiers’ – always runny yolks for a good old dip and always turning the egg shell over at the end and asking if anyone would like an egg before cracking the empty shell as a joke.Monday we would come home from school and take our plated-up leftover roast dinner out of the fridge and put it in the microwave, eagerly watching the clingfilm balloon into a huge plastic dome before bursting and collapsing back onto the food — lightly seasoning everything with what we now know were probably deadly toxins. Sometimes the gravy would already be on the plate in a jelly-like state and sometimes we made it from scratch – two heaped spoons of Bisto mixed with boiling water and occasionally drained through a sieve.Tuesdays would be leftover roast chicken (yes, still) in a white garlicky sauce with peppers and mushrooms served with rice – one of my favourites – or, if the chicken did not stretch until Tuesday, some sort of sausage dish. If lucky encased in a huge flowery Yorkshire pudding and if not so lucky slightly soft and anaemic looking in a stew.I presume Mum did the weekly shop on a Thursday because Wednesday relied heavily on the freezer. Breaded fish with waffles and baked beans. Thursday the freshly bought mince came out to make a Bolognese, lasagne or shepherd’s pie – hence the shepherd’s pie leftovers saved for my parents on a Friday. Uncle Ben’s sweet and sour sauce with extra pineapple served over chicken, with rice, peas and sweetcorn, would be what we ate. My mum never threw anything out, no waste at all. There would always be a leftover of sorts in the fridge and once I had started going out and drinking a breakfast of cold lasagne was my favourite.Saturday nights were a free for all where my mum and dad would order an Indian takeaway. I presume the regularity of ordering was the reason why one particular Saturday with friends over for my dad’s birthday, the restaurant had lined the bottom of the large cardboard box holding the takeaway pots with a collection of Page Three newspaper cuttings. Talking of takeaway pots, my mum was thrilled when they started using plastic ones and she could wash them up and stack them in one of the cupboards to never use again.My sister and I would order from the Chinese which meant a tub of egg fried rice for my sister and battered sausage and chips for me – because a Chinese takeaway always seemed to also be a fish and chip shop. My younger brother would probably still be breastfeeding.Dinners would usually be eaten on laps in the lounge. After school my sister and I would set up two trays that had legs either side and stood alone. We would sit on the floor with our backs to the floral couch and legs outstretched under the trays to watch Home and Away and Neighbours. Saturday nights would be a classic rundown of Saturday night telly and then Sundays back to the dining room.Those were the meals that shaped me — quite literally.Nothing has ever tasted quite as good as my mum’s cooking did back then.And I still maintain there is nothing better to put on toast than shepherd’s pie. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit toriecampbell.substack.com