← Back to Blog

Savory Vegan Pot Pie with Sage Crust — When the Body Cooks What the Heart Cannot

The first weeks of grief are not what I expected. I expected a single emotion — sadness, maybe, or loss. Instead, grief is a weather system: it changes hourly, without warning, from numb to furious to tender to fine to devastated, and the fine is the cruelest part because the fine makes you think you are through it and then the sadness returns like a wave you did not see coming and you are on the kitchen floor again, holding a ceramic bowl, unable to stand.

I made dashi this week. From scratch. The overnight soak, the careful heating, the bonito flakes, the straining. The process was mechanical — I did it without thinking, without feeling, the way you drive a familiar route while your mind is elsewhere. My mind was in Sacramento. My hands were in Portland. The dashi was made between the two, in the space where the body does what the heart cannot.

I started the blog again after two weeks of silence. The post was short — not a recipe, not a meditation, just a few paragraphs about loss and the kitchen and the ceramic bowls that sit in my cabinet now. I wrote about Fumiko without naming her, because naming her felt too raw, too exposing, as if saying her name in public would make the death more real than it already is. The readers understood. They wrote back — dozens of them, sharing their own losses, their own kitchens, their own grandmother's bowls. The grief, it turns out, is communal. The kitchen, it turns out, is where everyone goes when someone dies. We cook. We feed. We do the thing we know how to do because the thing we cannot do — bring them back — is not an option.

Brian has been gentle. Genuinely gentle, not the performative gentleness of a man who does not understand but the real gentleness of a man who saw me on the kitchen floor and has not forgotten. He comes home on time. He does not drink as much. He cooks dinner twice this week — simple things, pasta, grilled cheese — because he knows I am not ready to cook every meal, not ready to stand in the kitchen and feel Fumiko's absence in every pot and pan. The gentleness is real. The gentleness is Brian at his best. I wish his best did not require my worst.

The dashi I made that week was not a recipe I planned to share — it was just the thing my hands remembered how to do. But when I thought about what to offer here, what felt honest and fitting, it was this pot pie. A crust you work with your hands, a filling that asks you to gather and tend, the smell of sage in a quiet kitchen — it is the kind of cooking that does not demand you feel anything, only that you show up. That felt like exactly the right recipe for exactly the wrong week.

Savory Vegan Pot Pie with Sage Crust

Prep Time: 30 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr 15 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

  • For the sage crust:
  • 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon fine sea salt
  • 1 tablespoon fresh sage, finely minced (or 1 teaspoon dried)
  • 3/4 cup cold vegan butter (such as Earth Balance), cut into cubes
  • 6–8 tablespoons ice water
  • For the filling:
  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1 medium yellow onion, diced
  • 3 cloves garlic, minced
  • 3 medium carrots, peeled and diced
  • 3 stalks celery, diced
  • 1 cup Yukon gold potatoes, diced small
  • 1 cup frozen peas
  • 1 cup frozen corn
  • 1 can (15 oz) white beans or chickpeas, drained and rinsed
  • 3 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
  • 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
  • 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
  • Salt and black pepper to taste
  • 2 tablespoons unsweetened plant-based milk (for brushing crust)

Instructions

  1. Make the crust. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, and sage. Add the cold vegan butter and work it in with your fingertips or a pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces remaining. Add ice water one tablespoon at a time, mixing gently until the dough just comes together. Divide into two discs, wrap in plastic, and refrigerate for at least 20 minutes.
  2. Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 400°F (200°C). Lightly grease a 9-inch deep-dish pie pan or a 9x13 baking dish.
  3. Cook the vegetables. Heat olive oil in a large pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Add garlic, carrots, celery, and potatoes. Cook, stirring occasionally, for another 8–10 minutes until vegetables begin to soften.
  4. Build the filling. Sprinkle the flour over the vegetables and stir well to coat. Slowly pour in the vegetable broth, stirring constantly to prevent lumps. Add thyme, smoked paprika, white beans, peas, and corn. Simmer over medium-low heat for 8–10 minutes until the filling thickens. Season generously with salt and pepper. Remove from heat.
  5. Assemble the pie. Roll out one disc of dough on a lightly floured surface to fit the base of your pan. Lay it in and press gently into the edges. Pour the filling in evenly. Roll out the second disc and drape it over the top. Trim any excess, crimp the edges to seal, and cut a few small vents in the top crust with a knife. Brush the surface with plant-based milk.
  6. Bake. Place on a rimmed baking sheet to catch any drips. Bake for 40–45 minutes, until the crust is deep golden and the filling is bubbling at the vents. Let rest for 10 minutes before slicing and serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 480 | Protein: 11g | Fat: 22g | Carbs: 60g | Fiber: 7g | Sodium: 540mg

Jen Nakamura
About the cook who shared this
Jen Nakamura
Week 118 of Jen’s 30-year story · Portland, Oregon
Jen is a forty-year-old yoga instructor and divorced mom in Portland who traded panic attacks for plants and never looked back. She's Japanese-American on her father's side — third-generation, with a family history that includes wartime internment and generational silence — and white on her mother's. Her cooking is plant-forward, intuitive, and deeply influenced by both her Japanese grandmother's techniques and the Pacific Northwest farmers market she visits every Saturday rain or shine. Which in Portland means mostly rain.

How Would You Spin It?

Put your own twist on this recipe — what would you add, remove, or swap?