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At Thanksgiving this year, our table was again covered from coast to coast: large serving platter after serving platter, with a casserole dish or two in between. In fact, we didn't even use a table. Our embarrassing modern-day cornucopia was laid out on the top of my uncle's indoor Hot Tub. Though the molded plastic top was opaque, it occurs to me now how cool it would have been to have a transparent covering between the food and the blasting jets, our dark meat and cranberry relishes and chunky mashed potatoes being warmed by the primordial bubbling seen below. Or maybe all that artificial foam would have been unappetizing.
We ate well. Regardless of the fact that this particular suburb was mere miles from the bailout-free auto industry's epicenter, Detroit, and that the host worked for one of the Big Three, and that an attending cousin worked on a factory line soon-to-be shutdown, we ate well. Our turkey had been brined, soaked for 24 hours in a solution of salt, pepper, brown sugar and herbs, then rinsed and cooked. Its moistness rivaled the glass of nouveau Beaujolais I sipped between bites of tender thigh. The stuffing was flecked with hearty chunks of sausage, an ingredient sorely missing from other traditional menu items. Imagine: Sausage-smashed potatoes? Gravy au jus de saucisson? An annual highlight is the cauliflower casserole, a gluten-free miracle of science and butter that screams for national prominence and a high-profile ad campaign alongside giants of industry like Stouffers or Sara Lee. The cranberries were serviceable, if only for that added dart of bright red on a plate heaped high with brown and beige. I don't remember anybody getting seconds, but nobody needed them. We ate well.
After a cup of decaf, so hot and soothing, cutting through the post-gorge film of satiated saliva, the desserts appeared. And this is where my little holiday reminiscence takes a turn toward horror show. As often is the case, the previews were the best part. Another cousin had made and brought Rum Balls, a name deserving of puns which will go undiscussed here. But damn, they were tasty. Small spheres coated in confectioner's sugar, you could pop 'em in your mouth whole if you wanted to, but you shouldn't. Bite that itty bitty ball in half. Notice the subtle ting of sweet from the sugar coating, the chewy consistency of uncooked cookie dough, the sharp and surprising spike of rum in the back of your throat. A variation was coated in peanuts, but I preferred the sugared ones, smaller with a smoother mouthfeel. Eat enough of them, and you won't be feeling your mouth anytime soon.
Next to this platter were two dishes. The Pies. Someone asked about the whipped cream, and the host flew up and back down the stairs (we dined in the basement) with the immediacy of a Samaritan spotting a street-crossing old woman.** Their fresh-made whipped cream was legend; the cold cylinder once again held fluffy treasures, this year with a hint of cinnamon. But as topping to what? First: a sliver of Apple Pie. The crust "lid" was elegant, with a purposeful triad of swooping lines etched out of the top. Golden brown in color, a darker hue around the edges hinted at filling overflow, but no matter. The familiar insides held true to the formula: sliced Granny Smiths, sugar & cinnamon, nutmeg, dabs of butter long since soaked up. The crust foundation was sturdy, if not as flaky as a flake-hound might hope for, but I am not he. Also: My mom made it. It was delicious.
What is left? Why, the Pumpkin, of course. Thanksgiving without Pumpkin pie is like Halloween without pumpkin-carving, a Presidential election year without a few pumpkin-faced candidates (2008: M. Romney, J. Richardson, R. Paul). But something looked off. This pie was not the rich, deep-orange color I knew and dreamt of. This was a lighter orange, similar in hue to the coating of a creamsicle. And like that, it was melting. As was my heart.
"It's a Pumpkin Ice Cream Pie," my step-aunt said. She might have said it was destined to murder my first born. "'Pumpkin ice cream pie?'" I repeated, a cry into a canyon for justice, mercy, only to have the echoing answer reconfirm the existence of life's cruel absurdities: "Pumpkin ice cream pie."
Now, I love me some pumpkin-flavored products. With the coming of fall comes great seasonal treats, centered around the famous gourd. Pumpkin pancakes? Oh yeah. Pumpkin chai? Sure. Pumpkin ravioli? Why not. Grilled Pumpkin & Cheese sandwiches? No--who let you in here? Get out.
But the Pumpkin Pie is a sacred and holy vessel. As a kid, I admit, I didn't love the odd consistency, the pungent odor, the lack of visible chunks. But I've grown to adore the sweet unctuous filling, the shiny appearance. Its complexity is found in how simple it is. Nothing bears even a passing resemblance to it. The Apple Pie has its siblings of Apple Crumb, Apple Brown Betty, Apple Tart. A Cherry Pie has the Cherry Cobbler. French Silk Pie, Chocolate Mousse... what's the difference? But the Pumpkin Pie is singular, mysterious in its conception. That a successful Pumpkin pie can be made with 80% of its ingredients from a can makes me think of another miraculous birth. Is it any surprise to find out that myrrh is reddish-brown in color?
But this: This is no Pumpkin pie. This is pumpkin-flavored ice cream smushed inside a graham-cracker crust (fine in its own right but an accomplice to a crime, like a valedictorian student driving the getaway car) with caramel sauce drizzled over top. As a dessert, you could do worse. If this was a third option, I would take note of the maker's chutzpah and scoop a bite or two. And it was tasty; I scraped the melted pie and graham crumbs off the plate with my spoon. But as a replacement for true, succulent, satisfying Pumpkin Pie? No. No no no. This was the inevitable stolen from time; this was the uninevitable. My pumpkin pie was taken away from me. And I'm still stinging from its absence. Guess there's only one thing to do... learn to make it.
*On Princeton's online dictionary, a curious example phrase is used to help define the word: "such disparate attractions as grand opera and game fishing." In this analogy, my guess is that the filling is Pie's opera, and the crust is its fishing, but I know crust aficionados who would disagree.
**I could do better. Alternatives are welcomed in the comments section.
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