"It's a very rare thing, let me tell you, a good pork pie, and I can say so, for I'm one of the few people who can make one, though I say it myself."
Richard stood up, advanced on her, crying, "A magic?"
"Well, cooking is," she answered.
"Make me a magic pork pie, make me a magic pork pie with spell and onions," he bade her, laughing.
"Well, I will, but there's a whole lot of things you have to get in," she warned him. "There's conger eel, for one thing."
[...]
presently Richard Quin and I were scurrying through the night beside Aunt Lily [...] Aunt Lily demanded the ingredients necessary to a real pork pie with an air of adept cunning and troglodytish shopkeepers sold them to her with an equally zestful air of complicity. She paused to tell us that whereas there were a great many good butchers, ordinary butchers, a good pork butcher was as rare as an archbishop. After that she shot with an air of having dodged a barrier into an establishment where she found some good lean fillets of pork and some lard, which, we gathered from her unctuous explanation, was white as new snow because it came from the farm belonging to the father-in-law of the plump gentleman in a blue overall behind the marble counter. This increased Richard Quin's sense of the magic inherent in a pork pie, and thereafter a pork-butcher wizard and his father-in-law, a jinn who lived in a haystack and wore a smock, constantly appeared in our games and stories.
-- Rebecca West, The Fountain Overflows