Stargazey Pie

December. The shortest days. A fishing village on the Cornish coast, Mousehole, where the harbour is small and the weather is not kind. The story goes that one winter the storms were so bad nobody could fish, and the village was starving. Tom Bawcock went out alone, came back with a catch, and someone baked it into a pie with the fish heads poking through the crust so everyone could see there was food enough. That was centuries ago. They still make the pie every year on the 23rd of December, Tom Bawcock's Eve, and carry it through the village with the lanterns lit.

I'm not Cornish. This isn't my tradition to claim. But I've made this pie a few times when the winter has set in properly, and there's something about it that gets under the skin. The fish heads, yes. They look peculiar, poking up through the pastry like they're watching the stars. That's the point. The pie is meant to look like abundance, like proof that the sea provided. It's a pie that tells a story before anyone cuts into it.

Inside, it's gentler than you'd expect. Soft onions, sliced potatoes, chopped hard-boiled eggs, a mustard cream that sharpens everything just enough. The sardines bake into the filling and go tender and rich. It's a proper winter pie, the kind that belongs on a dark evening with the curtains drawn and candles on the table. Right food, right evening.

A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. If you can't get pilchards, use the freshest sardines your fishmonger has. If mustard feels too strong, use less. The fish heads are non-negotiable, though. Without them, it's just a fish pie. With them, it's something worth writing down.