Member-only story
It all started decades ago. Somewhere along the line, my mother got this pumpkin pie recipe. I remember helping her make the pies every Thanksgiving. As a small child, I was the official pie filling stirrer. She never made her own crust but would buy ‘sticks’ of pie crust that simply required the addition of water to unleash their magic.
My sister’s family always loved this pie recipe. My nieces and their children requested it on their birthdays as a special treat. My own kids would dutifully eat their assigned piece of pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving because they knew it was a little piece of their grandmother I was introducing them to.
My way of inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner.
But in truth, no one in my family particularly liked this recipe for pumpkin pie. Not even me. Not even with my awesome homemade pie crust. Not even covered in whipped cream.
For fifty years, I made this pie. Every. Single. Thanksgiving.
But something changed this year. Maybe because I’m retired. Maybe because I figured out I’m a much better baker than my mother ever was. Maybe because I simply didn’t need to hold onto this exercise any longer.
