My food heritage is Staffordshire oatcakes

A rare story about my personal history in English food

My grandmother had many names: Charlotte, her mother’s name that my grandad called her when she was being ‘difficult’. Agnes, or Aggie, her real name which virtually nobody used. And Peggy, the name that everyone called her. Peggy or Peg because she was, they say, so tiny when she was born. Little Peggy was one of eight, like a large litter of cats, I didn’t meet any of her siblings, not that I can remember anyway.

I always thought I didn’t have any real food heritage. I suppose, like many things, when it’s yours it doesn’t seem as interesting. I think British working-class people of my generation feel a little embarrassed by what they and their families ate. British working-class food doesn’t exactly have a dazzling reputation on the world stage. I was chatting with a writer friend about this once and she said the most wonderful off-the-cuff line, ‘My food heritage is cod in parsley sauce.’ I wish I could take credit for that one. 

My cousin Kim and I stuff our faces at Xmas in the late 80s or early 90s. Credit: Kel Is Eating

The line got me thinking, of the Gloria Hunniford Xmas hampers that my mum paid money into all year so that we could get excited in December by a box of Fray Bentos pies, tinned ham and Matchmakers. It really was exciting and I think unwrapping that big box of goodies was one of many key moments that led to me eventually becoming a food writer. “Hands off until Xmas,” she would say, as I pulled items out of the box and squealed. Waiting to open the Matchmakers was almost as exciting as waiting to open the presents.

What else was in our cupboards when I was a kid? Powdered cream of chicken soup that my mum would make in a large pan on the stove, popping an ice cube in mine to cool it down. Chewy little chunks of rehydrated chicken were the diamonds in that particular goldmine. We had tinned raspberries and Ambrosia custard too which I would make into a rudimentary dessert after school. There was corned beef with a little key on the side to open the tin. That was strictly dad’s territory. I never went anywhere near it. My dad is one of those people who would happily live his entire life eating food exclusively from tins.

My grandparents, Peggy and Jim credit: Kel Is Eating

But two things come to mind when I think about recipes handed down the generations in my family. These are meat and potato pie, a dish that my family reveres but I can take or leave, and Staffordshire oatcakes. Growing up, before they moved into our house when I was eight, I would visit my grandparents in Staffordshire and grandma would call me ‘duck’. I don’t remember much about their house except that they had a separate room adjacent to the living room which I wasn’t allowed in that had absolutely tons of ornaments in it including the piece de resistance: a glossy shire horse. The other thing I remember is these mustard-coloured rubber discs that sat on the arms of the chair. Some kind of protector for balancing a plate or a brew on them maybe? You tell me.

Oatcakes and pikelets (somewhere between a crumpet and an American pancake) were a staple of their cupboards. They’re still rare to find outside of Staffs postcodes and every time we went to Stoke we would stock up with piles of them and stick them in the freezer back home for a steady supply.

Oatcakes on sale in Sainsburys. Image: Sainsburys

If you’ve never had a Staffordshire oatcake before, they are completely different to the Scottish kind you get in packets from the cracker aisle. Staffordshire oatcakes are large thin crepes made from a yeasty batter of ground oats, milk and flour. They have an almost rubbery texture reminiscent of those mysterious armchair discs in my grandma’s living room. I know this doesn’t make them sound appealing but they are one of my absolute favourite things to eat. They’re also really easy to make, as I discovered during lockdown when I filled my freezer with piles of these wonky beige frisbees. 

Felicity Cloake - one of my favourite recipe writers - did a wonderful piece on Staffordshire oatcakes as part of her brilliant ‘How To Make The Perfect…’ series for The Guardian. If you’re curious and can’t get to Staffs, try her recipe. Like any pancake, the first one always looks like a map of Australia but persevere, they are worth the effort. 

A photo of oatcakes not taken by me, sorry. I have none. Image: Wikicommons

Traditionally, you top Staffordshire oatcakes with cheese and melt it under the grill as the edges of the oatcake crisp and curl. Add some crispy bacon and then roll them up and eat them like a burrito while the cheesy bacon grease drips down your chin. Sometimes people add tomato or a fried egg. I have mine with pickled beetroot instead of bacon and, if I can get my hands on some, Caerphilly or crumbly Lancashire cheese because that’s how my mum always made them. Something about creamy cheese and the sharp tang of beetroot, the vivid cerise colour seeping into the off-white cheese that never quite fully melts. Hard to resist making a second one. 

I always think there is nothing on earth that tastes like a Staffordshire oatcake but of course, it has cousins (possibly parents) all over the world. Lately, one of my favourite things to eat around Manchester - something I first tried in Jaipur, miles north of their birthplace - is South Indian dosas. Although these are made from rice flour and served usually as crisp cylinders filled with spiced potatoes, they aren’t a million miles away from the oatcake. Maybe I’ll try a fusion dish of Staffs oatcakes stuffed with masala potatoes at some point. Or is that a step too far?

I’d love to hear your quintessential food heritage items in the comments below.