Pumpkin Pie

by Amy

The pie in the Pre-Thanksgiving Dinner is almost an afterthought. We only know they even had it because their stomachs are described as being full of pumpkin pie (along with turkey, port, and expresso) as they say their goodbyes.

I wonder who the baker was and whether or not it was anticipated and appreciated. In my own home, when a pie is baked, my husband spends most of the meal saving stomach space for dessert. He’s discreet about it (if guests are present), but he keeps an eye on the slices as they leave the plate and mentally calculates how long the pie will last. I don’t think he’s ever eaten a last slice without asking when the next one will be baked.

This was my first time making a pumpkin pie. Maybe it’s because pies are usually baked with aforementioned pie-loving husband in mind. I tend to ignore recipes that he won’t enjoy since I’ll end up eating them all by myself. Pumpkin doesn’t rank high (or anywhere near the middle) on his list of favorite flavors. Another (very likely) reason is because pumpkin pie is unusual in my part of the world and there is some truth to the cliché that ‘out of sight is out of mind’.

I’m sure I must have tasted it at some point, but I can’t remember. To me it is a “borrowed memory”; it is my mother’s favorite. My memory isn’t of the pie itself, but of hearing her praising the wonderful blend of cinnamon and nutmeg with pumpkin. I remember the nostalgic look in her eye when talking of autumn desserts shared with friends when we lived in the US decades ago.

She loves pumpkin pie, yet I don’t think she’s ever baked one here. She might have, once or twice, but while I remember listening to her talk about it, I have no visual memory of her actually eating a slice.

As soon as I realized it was on the list of meals for the blog, I called her. Mom said she started salivating as soon as she heard I was planning to share her favorite pie with her, but the one thing she repeated over and over was, “I love pumpkin pie. I don’t know why I never bake it!” Her voice held a hint of disbelief every time she said it. Now, it would make perfect sense if she didn’t cook or if she had never incorporated into her diet any of the dishes she’s learned from various international friends. However, we’re talking about a woman who bakes her own bread and who is fearless about tasting new dishes and adding to her repertoire from the flavors and meals she’s been introduced to by friends both here and abroad. So why doesn’t she bake pumpkin pie?

I wrote out the list of ingredients and realized most were staples in my pantry and none were hard to find. In the meantime, I pondered on why my mother had, for so many years, denied herself something that was so accessible.

It was only today that it came to me: a possible reason why. It is probably the same reason why I usually make the pies my husband likes best and why the only cake that can usually be found in our house is the only one my son eats (carrot). If what we love is not shared by those we love, there is less pleasure in indulging. Mothers frequently lose sight of their own preferences in their role as caretakers. If “the girls” (my sister and I) would rather eat fudge or brownies or chocolate chip cookies or rice crispy treats as reminders of a childhood in the US, she chose those over her own preference of pumpkin pie (which we’d probably have turned our noses at, at the time).

I think it’s easy to get lost in the needs of others. I may be wrong, though. I may be biased because I am surrounded by wonderful people who recognize joy in those around them and choose to rejoice with them. I was raised by parents who seemed to think nothing of meeting our needs and sharing our delight in the smallest of things. The same mother who never forgot to make chocolate chip cookies and brownies was the young woman who, during a much-anticipated cross-country trip, nodded a yes to two little girls who begged to stay longer playing in a plastic ball pit. With a young son of my own, I can now empathize with the young couple who gave up on their ambitious touristic schedule to sit quietly, smiling, as their daughters thwarted the family vacation plans. This is the same woman who now, as a grandmother, easily gives in to her grandchildren’s requests for “Again, vovó!” or “Can you stay a little longer?” The same woman who adjusts her plans to be there in our lives whenever and however she can.

No wonder she didn’t bake herself pumpkin pies. She was too busy thinking of what everyone else wanted. Now that I’m a mother myself, I can absolutely understand. There is a magical kind of pleasure in seeing your child enjoying something you have made or helped make possible.

So now I know that the taste of pumpkin pie will carry with it a three-fold reminder. I will now eat pumpkin pie and remember that (i) I was blessed with parents who taught me that they loved me enough to rejoice in my pleasures and opt to indulge in what I loved, at the expense of frequently putting aside their own preferences, (ii) I should remember to give my son – and others around me – the same loving gift, and (iii) I should bake my mother more pumpkin pies. She deserves it.

I asked mom if the pumpkin recipe lived up to her memories… She said it was delicious, but there seemed to be something missing. She’s right. I didn’t have powdered cloves. I’ll have to bake another one and, since this time we weren’t able to eat it together, we’ll try to make a date to indulge in what will now be a shared pleasure. With my mother, that is. My son refused to taste it. He might grow into it – I did.

The pumpkin pie is mentioned on page 25 of the paperback edition of Still Life.

Here’s the recipe I used: 

http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/suzannes_old_fashioned_pumpkin_pie/