Shepherd's Pie

Rain on the window. The heating has just come on and the kitchen is the warmest room in the house. This is a shepherd's pie evening. You know the sort.

A shepherd's pie is lamb. Always lamb. If you use beef, it's a cottage pie, and that's a different conversation. The lamb mince goes into a hot pan and stays there until it's properly browned, dark and sticky, because the colour is where the flavour lives. Then the carrots, the celery, the onion. A splash of wine if there's a bottle open. Rosemary and bay, because lamb asks for both and is better for it. The filling simmers until it's rich and loose and smells like the sort of kitchen you want to walk into.

The mash goes on top. Not piped, not smoothed flat. Forked up into rough peaks so the ridges catch the heat and go golden and crisp while the filling bubbles underneath. There are few better feelings than carrying this to the table on a cold evening, setting it down on a wooden board, and watching someone dig a spoon through that golden crust into the dark, savoury lamb below.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: lamb, mash, Tuesday, rain. It hasn't changed. I see no reason it should.