My mother was not a mentally well woman. She lived with a paralyzing case of anxiety. It combined with heavy depression and narcissism, and then with a heavy dose of mania at the end of her life. Although she had a master's degree and was a professional opera singer, she could not maintain a job. She rarely left her bed. She had no friends outside of her mental health support groups. She was heavily medicated and severely reclusive, and it was almost always just the two of us. She had so few commitments in her life that going to a social event with an expensive dish made from scratch was a very big deal, and happened only once a year.
Every Thanksgiving, she was in charge of bringing the cranberry sauce to our meal at her sister's house across town. This was not just any cranberry sauce. It was a fresh sauce made from cranberries, oranges and walnuts. Now that I am budgeting a family grocery bill myself, I know that the cranberries and the walnuts and the orange all added up to an important chunk of our monthly food stamps, and I know she planned for it carefully ahead of time, as she carefully planned and organized everything: at the antique secretary desk by the door, with a ledger book, a scattering of cash envelopes, two calligraphy markers, and perfect, perfect penmanship. And almost zero dollars.
When we made the sauce, we had to take out the old plastic grinder and try once again to make it work. It was supposed to suction cup to the table and then we could run cranberries through it with the hand crank, but it never really stuck, and it didn't really grind well since the blades were plastic. It never really worked at all, but it always stressed my mother out so much that she often gave up on it before even going to the grocery store to buy ingredients. Some years it upset her enough that she gave up on Thanksgiving entirely, sending me out alone and empty-handed when my Aunt came to pick us up and was honking outside the front door. The entire holiday, for my mother, would be cancelled because of that grinder, or social pressure, or mental illness, or a combination of the three. Why were we grinding up whole cranberries, oranges, and twenty dollars worth of walnuts in the first place? Why didn't we chuck the idea entirely, spend three dollars picking up a can of cranberry sauce, take the pressure off, and enjoy the day? Nobody even cared. I wish I could have suggested this to my mother back then, but I didn't even like the cranberry sauce in the first place and had no idea why we were making it, why it was upsetting, why it mattered that we DIDN'T bring it, and why she would decide not to come to Thanksgiving because of it. I was, as usual back then, in way over my head.
These memories rose up and dangled in front of my face like horrible ghost puppets about a day after my first round with the scratch pumpkin pies. I saw the similarities to my mother as always, and predicted the future with a sinking heart: I had positive plans but not enough strength to keep from giving up in the end. No executive function. No ability to do it like the Real People do. I knew I was going to do just what mom did, too, and let it bury me. I was so sad. The days went by. My husband and I hadn't talked about it since the first round and I was hoping it could just go understood that the pies didn't work out. I needed a mixer so I could make a batch of puree that was actually smooth and pie crust that actually had butter blended into it. I needed a better spice recipe. I needed a successful crust. I didn't know if I should try what I had tried already or try something else. The questions overwhelmed me, seemed unsolvable, and I gave up completely.
At noon on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, like every day, I turned to the Chew. "Today is pumpkin pie day! We've tested a hundred recipes and we've got the absolute best here for you, plus all the tips you need to get a perfect pie every time!" Goosebumps seized me and I knew that, once again, the gears of the universe had aligned just enough to drop some help at my door. Clinton and Carla and Michael rapidly tested the top 3 pumpkin pie recies and the winner was a Simple Pumpkin Pie made from roasted pumpkin puree and a scratch crust. From the kitchen I heard them rattling off the ingredients and I noticed they had made many of the same choices I had, and I had most of the ingredients. They didn't list nutmeg; I had chosen to make a nutmeg-free pie as well. Then Clinton knowingly backhanded me the grand slam (mixed sports metaphor) as he said, "And this one is made with fresh ginger juice!"
My blood ran cold. I suddenly was knowing too: The good Lord (or the secret, or the wavelengths, or my intention floating out into the universe, or the stars, or the Gods or however you want to say it) above had sent me a net and I was enjoying that wonderful long first bounce, the feeling that even in my reclusive, silent, annoyed and hurting state, providence had slipped something perfect underneath to catch me: Friends! Support! In this technological world we live in, I spend most days thinking that all the disconnect can't be a good thing. But God uses everything for good, including the Hulu shows that I watch on the daily. My army of TV friends had marched in and scooped me up in the unemotional way a group of friends does, or would if I lived in a world where groups of friends were known to just march into my house (which I now wish I did, and which makes me think I should join a sewing circle, if those still exist).
There they were! People I trusted, with an answer: a simple recipe that I would use against my own experience, wishes, budget and judgement, to create My Ultimate Roasted Thanksgiving Pumpkin Pie. I would honor my mother's lofty goals and high taste by not aiming for the simplest pie, but for the one with a modern twist on a high-end classic. Ginger juice. My God, how You have not forsaken me. He waits in the still morning like a robin and watches me. He knows my name. All of that. I felt all of that. I curiously went to The Chew dot com and there was the recipe. I had no choice but to try.
I knew, as I drove to the store the next day, that only one store would have a small sugar pumpkin, fresh ginger and a pint of whipped cream for less than six dollars: Trader Joe's. Trader Joe's is THE store of Good Luck Experiences. I walked out victoriously with a gorgeous little pumpkin that cost 2 dollars instead of 3, and WASN'T going to be filled with a bird's nest of sad black pumpkin death.
I marched into my house and began cooking right then instead of waiting til evening to let my husband help me, as he had volunteered to do the night before. I was a big girl; I was mom. I had resources. I could have that pie done and sitting on the counter to cool by the time he got home, and could be shrugging it off to myself casually for the next blissful twelve hours until Turkey Time, handling everything else with ease, because the pies were already done, obviously. Can you tell I am not accustomed to finishing projects ahead of time?
I hacked with confidence this time, through perfect electric-orange pumpkin meat. I scraped with twice the speed. I roasted with abandon. I drug out the multi-attachment hand-cranking food processor my husband had purchased recently. I was skeptical that the blades would work well for the many tasks I needed from it, but as I started on cutting the shortening into the flour, I saw immediately that thiscrust was going to be completely different from the last one. I peeked and already it was airy. Wet and airy with tiny bits of shortening. YES. YAS LORD! The Chew and my aunt Carol agreed on the flour/shortening ratio of the recipe, with a bit of salt and sugar added in by the Chew, which I went ahead with, if only for my husband's deep addiction to and love for sugar. I added water (ice cold this time), and suddenly had a ball of real dough in my hand! I spent twenty minutes pacing while the dough cooled in the refrigerator. Before I woke from my dream I hurriedly slapped it on the table, rolling it out and starting over only once. I then folded it as my Aunt had originally told me to: in half, and then in half again on top of itself to get it in to the pan. It looked perhaps a little too dense and flat from being re-rolled, but I couldn't deny that it was smooth and moist and glowing and gorgeous, nothing like my Crust of a Thousand Crumbs from the first round. I thumb-printed my heart out all around the edge of the crust, going painstakingly slow (for me), making it the best I possibly could, which in the end was quite elementary, yet very pie-looking.
I turned to slay the custard, the Mother of Dragons rising within me. I felt the strength of rehearsal. The confidence of confidence. I was going to kill this pie.
I stripped the chunks of pumpkin into the same food-chopper bowl after washing it, and with a few turns of the crank had a smooth, gorgeous roasted pumpkin paste. Only the very finest bit of texture remained. I swooned. I threw in sugar, boldly omitting brown sugar, stating to the world that I believed in my Seasoning-Plus-a-Mother's-Love combo enough to sidestep the deep caramelly goodness of brown sugar in this recipe. I used the Chew's measurements of clove and cinnamon and it was half the spice of what the first pie had. My stomach burned with the memory.
It was finally time for the ginger juice.
Now, my favorite part of cooking is taking a classic and spinning up one element of the dish in a modern and gorgeous fashion. Beef roast, but with tomatoes and cognac. Pumpkin pie, but with fresh ginger juice! Clinton Kelly from The Chew had instructed me to mince up a two-inch chunk of ginger and then squeeze it through a cheesecloth or kitchen towel. I chopped the ginger as finely as I could and squeezed my best Massage Therapist Death Grip down onto the little ball of ginger pieces inside my kitchen towel, but only a few drops dribbled out. I thought of the small bowlful of ginger juice that Clinton poured into the custard, and I knew I was not going to be squeezing out anywhere near that amount, especially now that I'm in anger management. I chopped off another hunk of ginger and tried again, dumped in the several drops I had, and vowed to be ready NEXT year to make a pumpkin pie whose incredible secret was fresh ginger juice. I was just happy my pumpkin puree wasn't stringy and crunchy! I vigorously spun my custard mix, sloshing it to a halt and pouring it into the very pie-looking pie crust. Into the oven it went, and this time I brushed my hands together and then set them on my hips in excitement, knowing I had probably done it, that there was a good chance a real, edible pie was cooking in there.
I learned from my imaginary TV friends that my pumpkin pie wouldn't crack if I opened the door to the oven once I turned it off, but then left the pie in for another 10 minutes, so as to cool it gently. Sure enough, my pie had a few bubbles in the middle from my unorthodox mixing, but the custard was uncracked, it was the right light-orange/brown color, the crust was unburnt, and it smelled divine. I set it victoriously on the counter a half-hour before my husband got home from work. Then the coup detat: I whipped a pint of heavy whipping cream, plain and unsweetened in the food processor bowl. I took of the lid and blade attachment, added some saran wrap, and slammed the thing into the refrigerator like a mighty female gladiator. We would leave for Thanksgiving in Winter Park in the morning, and I was more ready for Thanksgiving than I had ever been in my life.
The next day my mother-in-law's eyebrows raised up in confusion and surprise when I said that the pumpkin puree was made from an actual pumpkin. She said she had never made a pumpkin pie from scratch before. Later, when we tried her pies, she said, "I like yours better because it's from scratch." My heart burst as I felt the arrow of success sink into my chest. I had done it. I had done this one thing. I had made the pies for Thanksgiving dinner.
Well, kind-of. I made A pie. My mother-in-law made two pies (as well as the entire Thanksgiving meal), pies that were of course much better than my very good pie, as it should be. We agreed the whipped cream could have used some vanilla. My crust was smooth, moist and not even remotely flaky. It was almost chewy, but it was sweet and delightful nonetheless, because it was not my first pie, whose crust was basically inedible. I felt nothing but victory. I thanked my lucky stars, and my best friend and my aunt, and my imaginary TV friends, and my laptop, and Jesus, and my daughter.
This is a story not of a great feat, but of the thousand tiny feats that add up to a parenthood. In a world where it is popular to hate the Participation Trophy, I will never forget the privilege of participating in the thing called Life. Those Thanksgivings when Mom and I managed to grind up all that fruity, nutty, pulpy goodness and put it in the good Tupperware for the trip to Aunt Carol's, they were never really any better than the ones when she didn't do it, it was just that we had managed to DO it, we LIVED, we CELEBRATED, we WORKED, we PARTICIPATED. THIS was what was good about those Thanksgivings. This holiday wasn't really any better, or particularly good because of the pie, but I proved to myself once again, and more importantly to my daughter, that we are people capable as any other of living life fully, and to the liveliest extent. I will never be able to crank out a super-productive household for my family the way that some women can, but we will not be beaten in this life, either. Not like my mother. We will make for ourselves, quite literally, a place at the table. We are strong. We are capable. We can reach the same branch that everyone else can. And if we can't, the universe will often throw us down a rope so we can pull ourselves up to the nearest rung.
This attitude is what I wish for now from my long-dead mother: We may not make the whole meal, but we will show up with at least one pie, and it is going to be fantastic. And we are going to do even more next year, because when you know more, you do more. So next year I'm doing two or three different pies. And I think I'll make that cranberry sauce, too, in honor of her snobby ass, who never gave up on trying to bring one fantastic dish, even after years and years of abject failure. Three pies and a side dish? That's a lot of practice rounds.
God Bless the virtual and real nets that catch us when we open our arms to the universe, say "I'm going to try!" and then jump.
Speaking of which, I noticed there's a Pioneer Woman episode entirely about pies sitting in my DVR.
Excuse me.
