Every time I visit the mother-in-law, or she comes to visit me, there’s a conversation about meat pies. It’s not me who starts the conversation either, I’ll have you know. If I’d married some working class heroine from some lovely part of Preston I’d maybe understand it, but my mother-in-law is a fairly well-to-do surgeon’s wife from over here in America. There’s always a slight tone of incredulity, if not in my voice proper, but in the voice inside my mind that keeps quiet about her so-called pie passion. Of all the things to fall in love with in the north of England, she had to become a fan of the growler. Time and time again she badgers us about getting hold of some, even though she’s only had them the once at our wedding reception.

So, it seemed only right and proper after grilling her about her obsession to pick some up while we were over in the UK this Christmas just gone. It’s one thing smuggling perishable meat pies through customs, and another having your illegal meaty contraband confiscated after a weed-addicted sniffer pooch with the munchies starts dry humping your luggage. Especially when you’re convinced that your mother-in-law is talking about the humble samosa.

“Operation Meat Pie” involved sending my mother to the the same butcher’s shop we’d got the original pies from and to get the buggers vacuum-sealed so they’d keep as fresh as three dozen growlers bought on a Friday in Nelson travelling to the backend of Ohio could possibly remain. I don’t think it’s a requirement the butcher had really adopted into his business model, but he did make a sterling job of the vacuum packing side of things. However, he did request to remain anonymous just in case an over zealous customs official collared me and I sang like a canary.

Like I’d throw him under the bus. Not that they travel up Railway St. these days anyway.

So, with stage 1 of “Operation Meat Pie” complete, I could rest easy that evening knowing I could pop out for a pint and a curry Butler Sheetmetal power meeting with John and Matt and get a power nap in before we embarked on our journey back starting at 5am the following morning.

Anyway, we got round to talking about favourite customers, and Matt chimed in with a nice little poaching tale that started around fifteen years ago when they both worked at Sovereign Sheetmetal where Matt was the foreman. One day he happened to be outside and some guy drove up asking for directions to Nelson Sheetmetal. They got to chatting and Matt asked him about the job he wanted doing and if he could take a look at the drawings. Now Matt is a sheet metal worker’s sheet metal worker in that he’s fluent in the art of technical drawing interpretation. He can read a drawing and throw solutions out there quicker than you or I (especially I) can explain a job. And he took one look at this particular drawing and told him that the guys at Nelson Sheetmetal wouldn’t be able to do it and to come back to see him once he’d been to their workshop.

No sooner said than done and he was back. It wasn’t a case of bad-mouthing the other firm, just that Matt knew this lot and their capabilities like the back of his hand. And from that moment on they’ve thrown this type (and other types) of work the way of Matt and Butler Sheetmetal. But to hear Matt talk about the guy in such glowing terms with regards to his own sheet metal knowledge and understanding, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Matt would be more than happy to fabricate their stuff for free. He has nothing but the utmost of respect for the guy’s ability to talk shop. I’ve never heard him talk about anybody like that other than Desert Orchid. It’s like some weird sheet metal soul mate thing.

After his touching ramble relating to the only customer he’s ever truly loved, we had our curry, popped backed to John’s popped-up, and managed to get back in at 2.30am.

I’m too old to be playing this three hour nap thing before travelling between continents for a couple of days. Once of a day you’d print a t-shirt and wear it as a badge of honour, but nowadays it remains etched underneath the eyeballs like a scar. So, at 5am - worse for wear and slightly bleary-eyed - I rang a taxi picking some number off the top of my head that I hadn’t used for well over a year. It goes to show what kind of a life I used to lead when the voice on the other end of the line goes; “Alright, Woody mate. How’ve you been.”

I didn’t even know which bloody taxi firm I’d rung. It’s not often I’m truly amazed by a bit of customer service, but I was amazed by this bit of customer service. But, like Matt and his kindred sheetmetal spirit, customer service doesn’t really do it service as a description.

Anyway, we managed to wedge our thirty-odd pies into the second suitcase and off we went. One taxi ride to Manchester; a train down to London Gatwick; a plane to Detroit; twelve signs, three customs officials, and a frisky dog telling you not bring meaty produce into the country; another plane to Cleveland; a drive to Elyria; a drive down to Wheeling; in the freezer for a few days; and finally whisked over to my mother-in-law’s near Columbus.

Seriously, heart transplant patients don’t have their goods shipped as meticulously or carefully as this. Although they probably don’t have to wait quite as long.

As for my mother-in-law’s response as Stephanie spread forth her meaty bounty before her (I was going to say booty, but that may not have scanned quite as well this side of the pond)?

“Oh, I didn’t mean those meat pies.”