Crisp Butties & Storytelling was a gathering that combined everyday comfort with creative expression. Over crisp butties – a classic Scouse snack – participants were invited to share stories, memories, and playful writing sparked by food and conversation.
This page brings together a collection of the writings created during the session. They capture personal voices, humour, and reflections, offering a glimpse into how something as simple as a sandwich can open up space for storytelling.
It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
Crisp Butties
My crisp butty will always be on white bread: fresh white bread that sinks under your finger
if prodded. Delicately structured- white layers balanced on pockets of air. The kind of bread
that sticks to your teeth when you bite into it; that smell of bakeries and just opened ovens.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I would not trust anyone else to make a crisp butty for
me. I cannot imagine anyone getting the ratio of salad cream to bread exactly right. Or being
able to judge the precise amount of Philadelphia needed to act as the glue that holds the
whole thing together. The arrangement of crisps on the bread is also key: too many or too
few can destroy the whole thing. My crisp butty is a kind of art form that only I can create.
My crisp butty says something about me. It chiefly says that I am lazy and cannot be arsed
cooking something that will be eaten in 5 minutes; this does not seem like a good use of my
time. It also allows me to feel rebellious: I know I should be eating protein and
vegetables…but guess what? I’m not.
Grandma’s Baking
Weekends with Grandma, looked forward to all week; the counting down of the days until
the last bell at school on Friday.
Grandma could cook anything- she had been a school cook during the war and could magic
anything out of nothing: fairy cakes, scones, biscuits we would splodge with icing and
decorate with hundreds and thousands, purposely scattering too many so we could scoop
up the leftovers and crush them between our teeth, feeling the sugar strands break and
melt in our mouths.
I would watch Grandma’s hands kneading the mixture: hands wrinkled and pink, ropes of
purple veins crisscrossing her skin, nails ridged and floured, traces of her fingerprints left in
the dough.
I loved her more than anything else in the world in these moments. The warmth of the
kitchen, the sudden burst of heat from the oven when opened, the smell of food we had
made together filling the room. I remember stretching my arms around her waist, feeling
the knot of her apron at the back, wishing I could stay there forever.
Your crisp butty and you
It’s Saturday afternoon. Hair smells of chlorine and sweat – a morning of ballet and
swimming and traipsing around town with Rob and Dad. Library books renewed. The
TV hums and drifts through the kitchen where you stand before the mess you’ve
made – empty McCoys packets, breadcrumbs, a disarray of crockery and cutlery
unnecessarily tainted. Cheese. Ham. Pickles. Dad walks in – oh, you’re making it a
crisp butty? – yes. A grin on his face, response to my confirmation. Approval.
He’d send me to help myself in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon, when my
appetite spiked. I added McCoys to what would formerly be a lowly cheese and ham
sandwich, before they were given the gift of CRUNCH.
While McCoys were never my first choice crisp, they were what was always in the
cupboard. Mum and Dad’s favourite? Or they were on offer? I preferred pombears
and wotsits and skips. My favourite flavour of McCoys in a crisp butty was ready
salted – I couldn’t quite hack the tongue-pealing quality of salt and vinegar at 11, and
cheese and onion I found too pungent.
When I make crisp butties now, I am transported to those particular Saturday
afternoons, when the footy was on and Mum was at work. Presently, crisp butties are
a snack when energy is low and I can’t be bothered to cook. I am not specific about
what crisps I have in them – whatever’s in, whatever will give me the dopamine-
CRUNCH.
Food – a strong memory
Jollibee is the best (and only) fast food chain you should go to in the Philippines.
This place hails memories of early childhood spent in the motherland, where I was
born. Of when I’d foolishly yearn for western culture, consuming American TV and
film from a young age. ‘Dad can we go to McDonalds, instead?’ was a common
request while we awaited in the long queues at Jollibee. His response always
something along the lines of – ‘no you don’t want that American rubbish; this is much
better’. I longed for French-fries. They looked good on a pixelated screen.
I once spent two and a half hours nursing a plastic plate of Jollibee spaghetti (a
delicacy) much to my heavily pregnant mother’s frustration. Anger. Understandable
impatience as a three-year-old giggled and played with each individual strand of
spaghetti, separating the strings from the circular cuts of plastic sausage sat under
the glaring lights of the SM shopping mall.
After moving to the UK, Jollibee was something I grew to miss. It had not yet
expanded to Europe. I craved the greasy crunchy chickenjoy drumsticks, the sweet
spaghetti, sticky rice shaped like mini cheeseburgers when wrapped in paper. The
distinct gravy that KFC could never trump. Every visit back to the Philippines begins
with a Jollibee meal, first thing after we land. It’s become ritual. And since Liverpool
has opened it’s own Jollibee, I’ve managed to get my fix – sort of. Of course it’s not
the same.
My order was always
Chickenjoy mixed with gravy
Spaghetti
Plain rice
Pineapple juice on draft
Now it’s
‘Asian’ rice bowl
Boneless chicken
Spaghetti
Pineapple juice (subject to availability)
Mango pie
It’s a simulation of something real. It’s more expensive and inferior to its motherland
original. I don’t eat under the glaring lights of the SM shopping malls any more,
rather, in my living room via UberEATS, or with the view of Liverpool One – the
outdoor equivalent to the indoor complex that was once so familiar. It’s an artificial
portal to home, comfort, and the naïve longing for McDonalds French fries.