Nothing cures a spot of homesickness like cooking.

I am amazed at how the human psyche works. In 44 years in England and many of them as a professional chef I have never made my own Pork Pies. So why is it that during the second year of my sabbatical in Catalunya I get the irrepresable urge to make that most quintessential of English treats? Who knows. The great thing is that this region seems to have a fetish for pigs feet. Eating them, I hasten to add, as opposed to any other fetishistic activities you might be thinking of.
So the essential jelly for the pies was.......well.......a piece of cake, if you forgive the mixed metaphore. Boil a pig's foot with aromatics and white wine for a few hours, strain and reduce. Ya esta!
A quick visit to the local Cansaladeria (pork butchers) yielded pork lard for the hot water pasty, bacon and minced pork for the filling.
The result, it has to be said, was rather impressive although I couldn;t find any English mustard to go with it.
They didn't last long.
Now where did I put my extra large jeans?