Bringing a Taste of Britain Home.
There’s something about food that pulls at the heartstrings, a certain pie, a particular cake, a smell that instantly transports you back to another place, another time. Years ago, I realised just how much we missed the food we grew up with. Not just any food, but proper British baking: pork pies with jelly, Scotch eggs with the perfect crunch, Eccles cakes with their sticky sweetness, and flaky sausage rolls that crumbled in your hand.
What started in our own kitchen soon grew into something bigger. We weren’t the only ones craving a slice of home. A community quietly formed around the comforting flavours of childhood memories and Sunday family tables.
We baked for the people who knew exactly what a pork pie should taste like. We made Battenberg for those who remembered it from their grandmother’s kitchen, and Victoria sponge that brought back memories of village fêtes and school cake stalls. Each recipe we made was steeped in the traditions that connect us across generations and across the miles.
It wasn’t just about the food. It was about belonging. About giving people, expats and locals alike, a little reminder that home is never really that far away.

The Spirit Lives On.
Though our ovens have long since cooled, the spirit behind every bake has not. It lives on, in the handwritten recipe cards tucked into drawers, the Sunday afternoon tea times still enjoyed, and the shared stories that have become part of so many kitchens.
Pork Pies and the Perfect Pickle is the natural continuation of that story. A cookbook, yes, but more than that, it’s a celebration of how food holds us together, even when we’re far from where we started.
It’s filled with traditional British recipes, lovingly recreated from both my family's kitchen and the bakery days,  foods that comfort, delight, and remind us of who we are.
For anyone who still craves a taste of Britain, a memory of a Sunday roast, or the simple joy of a slice of Battenberg with a cup of tea, this book is for you.
It’s for the ones who miss home, for the ones teaching the next generation what a real pork pie tastes like, and for those who know that sometimes the smallest things, a crumbling pastry, a dollop of pickle, mean the most.

Much Love and Gravy
​Leigh x

Who Wants to Lick the Bowl?
I remember Mum calling out from the kitchen. “Who wants to lick the bowl?” and that was it. No matter what we were doing, we’d drop everything and race in, hoping to get first dibs. There was something so good about that raw mixture. Butter, sugar, eggs and flour, how could something so simple taste that heavenly?
To be honest, Mum didn’t bake cakes all that often. And when she did… well, sometimes the magic stayed in the bowl. I’m not sure what happened between that tasty delight and the finished product, but the joy was in the making, not just the baking.
These cakes are the kind that aim to keep the magic right through to the final slice. Fool proof, full of flavour, and generous enough to share, but I wouldn’t blame you if you still wanted to lick the bowl first.
I don’t know about you, but when I think of baking as a child, it’s not the finished cake that comes to mind. It’s the bowl. The wooden spoon. The sticky grin. That glorious moment when the last bit of sponge mix had been scraped into the tin and someone handed me the bowl with a quiet “Go on then.”
No one ever said it out loud, but we all knew the rules. If you helped stir, you got first dibs on the bowl. If there were two of you, someone got the spoon and someone got the beater, a fair split of the spoils. And if you were especially lucky, Mum would leave just a smidge more mix behind than strictly necessary. A little gift in batter form.
Even now, I catch myself licking the spoon while baking and thinking, Yep,  still got it.
Back then, it felt like magic. The smell of butter and sugar in the air, flour dusting the worktops, and the sound of Radio 2 humming quietly in the background. Helping Mum bake was never really about the recipe. It was about standing on a chair, feeling included, and knowing you were trusted enough not to drop eggs on the floor (or at least not every time).
Now, I bake for my own family, and yes, I still lick the spoon. Sometimes Carl walks past and raises an eyebrow, but I tell him it’s essential quality control. Besides, that’s the cook’s tax, isn’t it?
And if you’ve ever handed a beater to a child and watched their eyes light up, you’ll know it’s not just nostalgia. It’s legacy. We pass these moments down, like we pass down our best gravy tips or the secret to a properly golden sausage roll.
Baking has become a bit trendier these days, stand mixers, sourdough starters, and carefully staged Instagram shots. But the heart of it hasn’t changed. It’s still about love. Comfort. Home.
So the next time you’re in the kitchen with a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, don’t rush the tidy-up. Take a moment. Lick the bowl. Lick the spoon. Give yourself permission to enjoy the process, not just the result.
After all, the cake’s for everyone. But the bowl? That’s yours.

Over here in Perth, things are ticking along nicely—sunshine, kookaburras laughing like they know something we don’t, and me trying to explain to Aussies why a proper cuppa must involve a kettle that boils water to actual boiling, not “hot-ish”.
But I’ve just been catching up on the latest back home, and honestly? The drama in the British supermarket aisles is hotter than a summer’s day in Sheffield (so… about 23°C and everyone’s shirtless).
Apparently, Tesco and Asda are at war. Not the polite kind with coupons and “every little helps” slogans, either. Oh no. This is full-on, basket-wielding, price-slashing supermarket carnage.

Tesco: Taking One for the Team (and the Tinned Tomatoes)
Tesco, bless them, have decided to fling £400 million at lowering prices. That’s enough to make a dent in the national baked bean surplus and maybe even stop people fighting over Clubcard prices. They’ve warned this heroic move might hit their profits—which is business-speak for, “We won’t be quite as filthy rich this year, but do enjoy your 50p off own-brand biscuits.”
They’re also planning to save another £500 million by tightening their belt. Probably means more self-service checkouts and fewer humans, but hey—at least your frozen peas will cost slightly less.

Asda: If We’re Going Down, We’re Going Down Cheap
Then there’s Asda, charging in like a mate who’s already three drinks deep and has nothing to lose. They’ve basically said, “Forget profit, let’s win back shoppers!” and started chopping prices like Edward Scissorhands in the produce aisle.
They’ve even scrapped 24-hour trading in Inverness, so if you fancied a midnight dash for chocolate milk and a Scotch egg, you’re out of luck. Clearly, they mean business.

And Aldi’s Just There, Smirking
Meanwhile, Aldi is sitting quietly in the corner, having already stolen half the market while no one was looking. They’ve overtaken Asda in food sales and are probably planning to conquer the world using middle aisle chainsaws and inexplicably cheap olives.

Watching from Afar
I’ll be honest—watching all this from the other side of the world feels a bit like tuning in to a soap opera I didn’t know I missed. One minute I’m sipping a cup of herbal tea in the Aussie sunshine, the next I’m deep into reports about Tesco’s falling stock price and Asda’s battle plans.
I’ve started treating the UK supermarket scene like live theatre. There’s passion, betrayal, and more plot twists than an M&S meal deal. All that’s missing is a narrator whispering, “Next time on ‘Battle of the Baskets’…”

Anyway, if you’re reading this from back home—know that I’m cheering you on. May your trolley be full, your bargains be bountiful, and your self-checkout not freeze halfway through scanning your broccoli.
And if Tesco starts doing free shipping to Australia, do let me know. I’ve got a craving for proper crumpets and irrationally miss the smell of Sainsbury’s rotisserie chicken.