Authentic versus Real Pumpkin Pie
My daughter was eight when we set out to make two authentic pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving dinner. Pumpkin pie from real pumpkins, not cans of pumpkin.
During the day-long event, I led the cheer: “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” and she’d chant back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!!”
We danced off to the market to purchase small sugar pumpkins for our authentic pies. She inspected each one to find four pumpkins identical in size and as pure orange as a Crayola crayon. This took an hour.
At home we gathered all the utensils and ingredients for the filling and crust. We even tied on matching aprons.
I cut and she peeled the pumpkins. We scooped innards and saved the seeds for roasting later.
While the pumpkins boiled we ate lunch and mocked “real” pies made from cans. Ours would be the most delicious pies the family ever tasted. “Authentic” was the new word of the day.
We made a snack waiting for the pumpkin to drain and cool. She got crackers and I reached into the pantry for the peanut butter. Sitting right there, mocking me, three cans of perfectly pureed ready-to-use pumpkin.
The crust, made from scratch, was a fail-proof recipe given to me by my aunt. My daughter measured and mixed, incorporating little pieces of butter and shortening with her hands. The dough that should have resembled small beans looked more like Little Miss Muffet’s curds and whey. I made a second batch while my daughter looked for a Disney movie to watch.
The new dough rested as we ate lunch in silence, staring out of the window. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I said, and she answered: “I know. Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins.”
Making the filling became a math lesson. This skill surpassed the fine motor challenge to keep the filling in the bowl using a wire whisk. At this point any parent can appreciate the triple time it takes to do anything when you add in an extra pair of small hands. I sensed losing her to Aladdin.
We rolled the crust nice and thin fitting it in the pan, crimping the edges. Together we poured the filling then placed the pies in the oven until perfectly set.
“Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I chirped and she droned back: “Yeah, pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins. I said I know.”
I choked down two aspirins with a cup of coffee while she watched The Lion King for the twentieth time. It was early evening when the suckers came out of the oven. I pulled my daughter away from the TV to admire our joint achievement.
Her ho-hum demeanor changed on Thanksgiving Day when she got to tell everyone how she made authentic pies from real pumpkins. Such pride. By the way, they were delicious.
The next year, and every year since, I open three cans of pumpkin puree to make real pumpkin pies. It’s a running gag now. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I say and she chants back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!! In cans.”
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Awesome MEMORY
Photo: Stephanie DelTorchio (from my actual pantry)
Image credit: Pixaby