Gravy stains and tall tales await you!
Embark on a real foodie journey with Julie Harris
Welcome to Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey, where every dish comes with a story, and every stain has a memory. This blog isn’t about perfectly plated food or spotless kitchens – it’s about the messes we make, the laughter that echoes around the dinner table, and the unforgettable meals that leave a mark long after the plates are cleared.
From pub grub to family recipes passed down through generations, we’ll explore the real, unpolished side of food – the mishaps, the triumphs, and the tall tales that make every bite worth savouring. Pull up a chair and dig in!
Book Launch!
Lies, Theft and Shit on the Ceiling
A brutally funny true story of pub ownership, kitchen chaos, criminal customers and one Canadian woman wondering what the hell she had done.
Part memoir. Part cookbook. Completely true.
Explore
The blog…
Dive into delightful recipes that blend Canadian heritage with British flair! Julie’s creations promise to tantalize your taste buds and spark joy in your kitchen.
Get behind-the-scenes glimpses of pub life and learn how Julie transformed her dreams into reality, one dish at a time.
Travel partnerships, hosted experiences and story-led brand collaborations reaching a valuable female 45+ audience. View Julie’s media kit and work together.
Unleash the foodie within
Indulge in the authenticity of homemade meals and the warmth of shared tales.
Well, this just happened…
Well, this just happened. One of the first endorsements for Lies, Theft and Shit on the Ceiling has come from Scott Taylor, publisher of Esprit de Corps magazine. Scott has spent decades publishing stories from soldiers, sailors, journalists, adventurers and…
Let me tell you a dirty little secret about hospitality.
The best meal you’ve had this year probably wasn’t cooked by a committee. It wasn’t designed in a boardroom by six people called Simon studying a spreadsheet and debating whether a mushroom should cost 14p or 16p. It was cooked…
The things I miss most about running a pub
People assume I miss owning a pub because of the beer. I don’t. Beer is beer. You can buy it anywhere. What I miss are the people. Not all people, obviously. Let’s not get carried away. There are some people…
HOW I ACCIDENTALLY BECAME A PUB LANDLADY
Nobody grows up in Canada thinking: “You know what my future holds? A collapsing English pub, a screaming dishwasher, forty-seven drunk villagers arguing about cricket, and a giant sheepdog stealing Yorkshire puddings.” And yet… here we are. If you’d told…
Japan doesn’t give a shit about your bucket list.
That’s the first thing you learn. You fly halfway around the world with some cinematic fantasy in your head…cherry blossoms drifting through the air like a goddamn Kurosawa film, monks whispering wisdom, Mount Fuji standing there majestically while you have…
Facebook Posts
THE PUB OLYMPICS: COMPETITIVE DRINKING FOR PEOPLE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER
One of the great joys of running a pub is watching ordinary men slowly transform into elite athletes after four pints.
These are not athletes.
These are men who need reading glasses to read the menu. Men whose knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies. Men who spend half their lives complaining about their backs and the other half looking for where they left their bloody phone.
But add alcohol and suddenly they’re competitors.
The first event is the Dash to Beat Last Orders.
For six hours they’ve barely moved. Then the bell rings and they’re charging toward the bar like they’re storming the beaches of Normandy.
Next comes Karaoke.
A bloke called Dave, who couldn’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow, decides he’s Freddie Mercury. His mates join in. Nobody knows the words. Nobody cares.
Then comes the Football Argument.
Two men who haven’t kicked a ball since Thatcher was in office spend forty minutes shouting across the room about tactics. Neither is listening. Neither is changing their mind. Both somehow leave believing they’ve won.
But the final event is always my favourite.
The Flower Planter Hurdles.
Every pub has a flower planter.
Every pub has an idiot.
Eventually these two things find each other.
The contestant takes a few steps back, hands his pint to a friend and studies an eighteen-inch obstacle as though he’s preparing for the Olympic final.
His mates cheer.
Someone starts filming.
Because deep down everybody knows what’s about to happen.
He runs.
For one beautiful second he achieves flight.
A majestic creature soaring through the night sky fuelled entirely by lager, poor judgement and male ego.
Then gravity remembers he’s there.
The landing sounds expensive.
Silence follows.
Somebody finally asks, “You alright?”
The answer, as it has been since the beginning of British pub culture, is always the same.
“Yeah. Fine.”
He is absolutely not fine.
And next Friday he’ll be back, pint in hand, ready to compete again.
Because nobody learns anything in a pub.
That’s why we love them.
Well, this just happened.
One of the first endorsements for Lies, Theft and Shit on the Ceiling has come from Scott Taylor, publisher of Esprit de Corps magazine.
Scott has spent decades publishing stories from soldiers, sailors, journalists, adventurers and people who have lived lives far more interesting than most.
So hearing this from him means a great deal:
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
“Incredibly astute observations told with a bawdy sense of humour.”
Not bad for a Canadian who accidentally bought an English pub.
Launches 21 June.
I’ve had quite a few people asking what sort of stories are actually in my book.
Well… this is Ron.
Every pub has characters. The people who become part of the furniture. The people who walk through the door and instantly make your day better, worse, or significantly more complicated.
Ron managed all three.
A retired barman, a village legend, and a man whose life choices often left the rest of us wondering whether we’d accidentally wandered into a sitcom.
This short reading is taken from Lies, Theft and Shit on the Ceiling: A Canadian’s Journey to Pub Ownership in England, a collection of absolutely true stories from my years running a village pub.
I should point out that I have changed some names to protect the guilty.
Ron isn’t one of them.
Enjoy.
#PubStories #BritishHumour #BookLaunch #Memoir #VillageLife
Let me tell you a dirty little secret about hospitality.
The best meal you’ve had this year probably wasn’t cooked by a committee.
It wasn’t designed in a boardroom by six people called Simon studying a spreadsheet and debating whether a mushroom should cost 14p or 16p.
It was cooked by someone who actually gave a damn.
Somewhere along the way we’ve convinced ourselves that all pubs and restaurants are the same.
They’re not.
A proper independent freehouse is one of the last genuinely rebellious businesses left.
The owner is gambling with their own money.
The chef is putting their reputation on the plate.
The person serving you probably knows the names of half the customers in the room.
If something goes wrong, there isn’t a head office in Milton Keynes.
There’s just a stressed pub owner lying awake at 3 a.m. wondering why the fryer has chosen violence again.
Independent pubs survive because people care.
Chain pubs survive because accountants care.
There’s a difference.
One spends all week trying to create something memorable.
The other spends all week trying to create something repeatable.
One buys beer because it’s interesting.
The other buys beer because it satisfied seventeen procurement targets and a regional pricing strategy.
One changes the menu because the chef found beautiful local produce.
The other changes the menu because someone in a distant office updated a PowerPoint presentation.
Look, I’m not saying every independent pub is brilliant.
I’ve met some absolute disasters.
But when an independent freehouse is good, it’s one of the best places on earth.
It’s where communities happen.
It’s where stories are born.
It’s where first dates, last drinks, wedding receptions, wake sandwiches, business deals, village gossip and bad decisions all collide under one roof.
So the next time you’re choosing between a proper freehouse and somewhere serving the same burger in 700 locations across the country, do me a favour.
Choose the place with the weird owner.
The questionable carpet.
The dog asleep by the fire.
The chef having a mild nervous breakdown in the kitchen.
Choose the place with a soul.
Britain has enough spreadsheets.
What it needs is more pubs.
Today, we remember.
Eighty-two years ago, thousands of young men crossed the English Channel knowing there was a very real chance they would never come home.
Some didn’t.
Some survived the beaches only to carry the memories for the rest of their lives.
My two uncles were among those who fought on D-Day.
Years later, I would serve more than two decades in the Canadian Navy, standing watch in a world shaped by the sacrifices of their generation.
Military people have a habit of downplaying what they’ve done.
They’ll tell you they were lucky.
They’ll tell you they were just doing their job.
They’ll tell you about the bravery of someone else.
But courage isn’t the absence of fear.
It’s climbing down a rope ladder into a landing craft and going anyway.
It’s stepping onto a beach under fire because somebody has to.
Today isn’t about politics.
It isn’t about division.
It’s about gratitude.
For a generation that faced extraordinary circumstances and paid an extraordinary price so that the rest of us could live ordinary lives.
To those who served, those who fell, and those who came home carrying burdens few could understand, thank you.
We will remember them.
#DDay #WeWillRememberThem #NeverForget #CanadianVeteran #Normandy1944