Sunday I cooked a pot roast with carrots, celery and little new potatoes. Now I have all this tender beef and vegetables left over. What to do? What to do? I could grind it all up like my mother did, and make beef hash but that just doesn’t sound good right now. Then it hits me. Beef pot pie! I make chicken pot pies all the time, why not beef pot pie? I have two ready-made crusts in my fridge, a bag of frozen peas in the freezer and a ton of gravy to go with the carrots, potatoes and beef. All I have to do is heat up the gravy, chop the cooked beef, maybe cook a few more carrots, add the frozen peas and potatoes, pour it in a casserole, top it with the crust and Bob’s your uncle...pot pie. Well, it wasn’t exactly lickety split but still, a quick, hot, tasty comfort meal and a great way to use up leftovers.
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| Let's make Pot Pie! |
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| Can't have Pot Pie without peas and carrots |
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| Ready to be pre-baked |
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| And Bob's your uncle...Pot Pie |
Leftover Beef Pot Pie
1-1/2 cups chopped or shredded cooked beef
1 cup cooked potatoes
1 cup cooked chopped or diced carrots
1 cup frozen peas
1 -2 cups beef gravy
2 ready-made pie crusts (or make you own)
1 egg (for egg wash)
Preheat oven to 400 degrees
Remove all visible fat from leftover beef roast and chop or shred.
Roughly chop leftover cooked potatoes and carrots.
Heat the gravy in a medium to large pot until it is hot. Remove from heat.
Add the chopped beef, potatoes, carrots and frozen peas. Stir to mix.
Meanwhile, fit one of the pie crusts into a medium baking dish or casserole that can go into the oven. Make sure the crust fits over the edges of the baking dish. Prick the bottom of the crust with a fork and bake for 10 minutes, just until set but not brown.
Remove from oven and pour hot beef and vegetables mixture into baking dish over precooked bottom crust. Carefully fit top crust over mixture and pinch edges of top and bottom crusts together. Cut 3 slashes in top of crust to vent.
In a small dish whip the egg with a fork until frothy and brush over top crust.
Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes or until golden and bubbly.
Serves 4-6
I have included in this post, an essay I wrote for my memoir writing class to give you some idea of what we come up with. The more I write about my childhood the more I remember. Each memory seems to trigger another and then another. For one thing, the phrase “Bob’s your uncle is something my grandmother and mother used to say. It is a British term and somewhere in our family history it became part of the vernacular.
Our instructor talks a lot about our audience-who are you writing for? For me, it is my children and grandchildren. I want them to know how their mother became the person that raised them. I think it’s important that our children understand their own family culture. Even though you are not my family I'd like to share a small picture of my childhood.
Home Is Where the Heart Is
They say home is where the heart is but for me, that’s more difficult to define. Born in San Francisco, as a small child I moved from one apartment to another and then up to the gold country before my father even started his career as a California State Park Ranger who was reassigned every time he was promoted. We relocated, moved house, changed addresses, whatever you want to call it, we moved. We moved a lot.
Moving around as we did, it was difficult to make friends or keep them. I can’t tell you how many different doctors and dentists I saw or how many libraries I belonged to. The number of schools I attended is just blur in my memory until I got to high school. At least there were only two; Carpinteria High and El Dorado County High School.
As an adult, for whatever reason, I continued the tradition of moving every two or three years. My own children attended more schools than I did and I wonder where they consider their “home” really is.
By 1975 I had finally put the brakes on and decided that Los Gatos, California would be my last stop, and it was. Forty years later, here I am, still living in Los Gatos. Now, in the winter of my years, I’m bonded to this place. This is where my friends live, this is where my family is. This is where my life is. But is it home? No, not really.
A childhood spent in the golden hills and canyons of the California gold country gave me many wonderful memories. Whether it’s spring and the hills are emerald with new grass, dotted with golden poppies and sapphire-blue lupines or it’s fall and dark green oaks punctuate the dull gold of the rolling hills, it still feels and smells the same. Small mining towns and orchards we pass greet me like old friends. It hasn’t changed all that much. The carefree years I spent here as child come back to me as if in a splendid dream. But, is this home? No, not really.
A trip down the California coast brings me to the tiny beach town of Carpinteria, where I spent my early adolescence. The sparkling blue Pacific, briny sea air, and tall palm trees bring back those awkward, yet precious years in a dreamlike flash. I was happy here too. But is it home? No, not really.
There is only one place on earth I can say I feel like I am home. It starts when I drive north on Highway 280. My first little kick comes when I spot my alma mater, San Francisco State College, or University, as it is called now. Then, as we come around the curve at Alemany Boulevard I look up to the right. I see a long row of houses clinging to the top of the ridge, their back windows glinting in the sun, as if they are winking at me. If I’m a passenger I can take the time to pick out the back of my grandmother’s old house on Sweeney Street.
The closer we come to the city that tick of joy in my heart beats a little faster. I can’t stop the smile that lights up my face as the skyline appears. I recognize old neighborhoods and as we head to or North Beach for Italian food or the DeYoung Museum to see a new art exhibit or Haight Street for some shopping and lunch at Cha Cha Cha I can’t stop the memories: my grandfather taking me to the wonderland of the Crystal Palace to buy his stinky Limberger cheese and pickled pigs feet; Market Street, that was once a bustling authentic downtown with its Emporium Department Store, dress shops, shoe stores and splendor of afternoon tea at the Palace Hotel; Golden Gate Park where I played hide and seek with my friend Joyce as the afternoon fog whispered in and out of the trees, making it a fairyland. The scent of Eucalyptus trees in Sigmund Stern Grove instantly takes me back to the concerts my grandmother and I attended.The wading pool at Fleishhaker Zoo that I splashed in is now a habitat for penguins. It’s all still there, embedded in my heart.
I’m walking away from a Giants night game and here comes my old friend the soft, grey fog sliding over my beloved city by the bay like a giant hand is pulling up the covers and tucking it in for the night. I breathe in the cool, marine air. This is home.
