Mini Love Affairs: The Mince Pie

Like any love affair, this one started in a dark and cozy pub. Unlike many love affairs, this one is still alive and well 22 years later.  The first time I ever ate a mince pie I was somewhere in the south of England about to attend a ball with my boyfriend at the time. We had taken the train from Glasgow to London, hopped in the car with some of his friends, drove a few hours- past Stonehenge-, arrived at our destination where I promptly changed into my gown in the toilets, left the venue for the pub across the street before we would eventually head back. There, in that crowded and overly warm pub, I had my first mince pie. There was a plate of them. Fancily stacked on a tiered tray actually. Right next to a vat of mulled wine. Free for the taking.

It was, in fact, the second time I had been presented with an abundance of these little pies. The weekend before the same boyfriend's flatmates were having a mulled wine and mince pie party. I watched as bottle after bottle of wine was poured into a pot on the stove, and more and more people crowded inside. All of them seemed to be nibbling away on these pies that were easily held in their hand- something they claimed to be delicious. At that point in time, all I wanted was fresh air and a cold pint of lager and a bag of Santitas. I was still American, after all. And, like many young Americans, I had never had a mince pie and I had no desire to have one because the name 'mincemeat' really made me think there would be ground beef in it. I couldn't quite get over that idea no matter how many times someone tried to convince me otherwise. I had eaten haggis and blood pudding might have touched my tongue, but mixing meat and sweets seemed to cross some kind of line. 

I avoided mince pies at that party, more than likely finding myself getting chips and cheese later that night, but on this dark December night I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten anything and I didn't know when the next time would be. And there, sitting on the bar, were free mince pies. That's what the sign said anyway....Everyone was entitled to a mug of mulled wine and a mince pie. Something to do with the ball we were about to attend. And so I dug in.  I don't know if at that moment I really enjoyed it, but I do know that what I was found was not a speck of meat but a mouthful of warm spiced fruit. And I became enchanted by the idea of wine and pie warming me from the inside out. 

I must have gushed about it to my parents when I arrived home the week after because my mom returned from one of her many Christmas shopping expeditions with a jar of mincemeat. The next December another one appeared. And thus began our mini-mince pie tradition. There were very few takers on our mince pies. My father. My aunt. An odd friend or two usually with some connection to Britain. Once our dog ate six of them when they were accidentally left on a table he could reach. He sat in his crate that night looking at us like we were monsters for making him eat them.

Two years ago I was lucky enough to be back in Scotland visiting friends in the days before Christmas. We spent a night at my friend Karen's and right after picking up her boys from school we came in and we all had a mince pie and a cuppa. My daughter wasn't impressed which was hilarious because the two little ones were well into it. Nuala just didn't care for it, she said. After wandering around Edinburgh's Old Town another day, we met up with my friend Helen and her son in a cafe. The mulled wine and mince pie were the special and so I indulged. It was like coming home. 

Last year was the first year since 1999 that I didn't make my own mince pies. There was no mince to be found in any of the grocery stories. Finally, I found my way to the little Scottish Gourmet food company that's hidden away in Greensboro. It's a mail order business, but if you pop by they have a little room set up like a gift shop. It's darling. I walked in and scooped a box off the shelves- the last one I could see-  so it could finally be Christmas.

I found mince early this year. A gift from the pandemic gods. Every once in a while after a particularly hard day of working from home, I would take it off the shelf and stare at it moonily. Yesterday, just after my semester ended, I finally made them. A bit jazzier than I usually do with a star in the middle. It's been a crazy year, after all- the mince pies must be even crazier. The best part of this year's batch, however, is that my daughter actually likes them. 

Making mince pies was my first grown up new Christmas tradition. It let me bring a piece of the place where I always feel so at home to wherever my home actually is. And so every December my mother and I keep our eyes peeled on every grocery trip to see who can snag the first jar of mincemeat filling which usually arrives around the same time as the Thanksgiving displays do. It's funny what you hold onto over the years. I don't think I ever thought a mince pie would be one of those things, but it is and I don't mind a bit. They take me home, they make it home.