This pie came about because, firstly, I adore pie. It was my pregnancy craving – steak pie followed by cherry or apple pie. I would buy packets of Mr Kipling and polish them off by the half dozen. Something about the crumbling, yielding collapse of the pastry, the hot-or-cold, sweet-or-savoury, the lingering lubrication, satiation, of a layer of fat and gravy disappearing down my greedy gullet. I make a pie most weeks, more so since cooking vegan food than ever before. This particular pie came from a longing for something ‘meaty’, but not meat, of course. A hearty, wholesome, dark and brooding pie that would fool even the hardiest of carnivores. And so I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. This pie is something of a miracle to convert even the most hardened and sceptical carnivore – Phil, a self-confessed ‘meat man’ who doesn’t like mushrooms, hoofed half of a very large one in one evening. When I made it for my parents, my Dad poked at it with his fork, muttering that he ‘didn’t eat vegan nonsense’, before wolfing it down and sheepishly asking for seconds.