Steak pie and pyjamas

Last Saturday I was still in my pyjamas at 11:30. I had the house to myself and wasn't expecting any visitors or deliveries. The doorbell went. It was bloke in an open-top convertible who had been given one of my carrot muffins by a chap that had brought the portaloo (yes, no proper sewer all summer) and had thought it was fantastic. He had dropped by expecting to find a shop, not a house with an unkempt cook, a kitchen in chaos, no products for sale, and no Environmental Health clearance for anything other than low risk cakes.

I asked him what he wanted, checked on pastry lid versus full case, his views on animal cruelty (well, would he pay extra for organic/freedom foods or not) and then asked what he wanted to pay. With all this information I set about making my first ever steak pies, figuring I might just as well know if they work, can they cope with being frozen, do they taste good, can I do them for the price he is prepared to pay, before I reopen conversations with my excellent local EHO.

Fortunately the pastry is sufficiently pliable and robust, the pies cope with being frozen, and my instinctively carnivorous husband is delighted with this new range of compulsory food tests.