“Grandma, Grandma, look. Grandpa’s got a punkin’ from the garden,” three-year-old Will shouted excitedly. “Can we have a punkin’ pie? It’s my favorite.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever made a pumpkin pie in June before, but there’s always a first time for everything, or so my wise father used to tell me, and he, too, was rather fond of punkin’ pie.
Mary Ann Ellis
Punkin’ pie in June
“I’ll bet we can,” I told Will.
I looked in the refrigerator for the boxed pie shells, and pulled them out to check the dates. One box read Nov 2011; the other, Feb 2012. Maybe the most recent date would still be good. I tore into it to check and my heart sank when I saw the black spot in the middle of the circle of dough.
“Shoot! Now I’ll have to go to the store before I can produce that promised pie,” I said to myself.
From out of nowhere came the voice of reason in my father’s deep tones and I could have sworn he was in the room instead of in my head; “Mary Ann, you don’t have to go to the store. You have all the ingredients right there in your pantry—two kinds of flour, Crisco, salt, water. Your rolling pin is right up there in the cabinet gathering dust. I remember your homemade pie shells as being rather tasty. I also remember when you didn’t serve anything that wasn’t homemade. What happened that you now have to go to the store to produce a pie shell?”
So I took out my rolling pin, dusted it off, and prepared to make a pie shell for the pumpkin baking in the oven. For the first time, I used my Ninja to mix the dough and was most impressed with its speed and efficiency. In less time than it would have taken me to drive the 7 miles to town, roam around the store a while, maybe stop and talk to a couple of folks, and drive the 7 miles back, I had a lovely pie shell lining a deep-dish pie plate. I had saved myself some time and probably a substantial sum of money because I can never seem to go in the grocery store and come back out with just the two items I went for. I go for pie shells and come back with a trunk loaded with everything from potting soil to detergent. If it’s a good day, I actually get the pie shells, too.
By now the pumpkin is baked but rather pale. I ignore the color and continue with my pie. After 50 minutes in the oven, the shell comes out beautifully browned, but the filling is still pale. We patiently cool it, but when I’ve served it with ice cream (another anomaly), I’m disappointed. It tastes watered-down. The taste of cinnamon, cloves, and ginger overpower the pumpkin taste. The boys don’t complain, but I notice the ice cream disappears while the pumpkin pie remains.
Larry tastes the pie and informs me that somebody told him the pumpkin would taste like that if it got too much water when it was ripening. I’d never heard of such a thing, but something was obviously wrong. I just knew I’d gone to a lot of trouble for a washed-out pumpkin. The main problems were the disappointment and the cleaning of the kitchen. Yet the boys didn’t complain. They just ate their ice cream and nibbled at the pie.
Today I served them another pie with Fathers’ Day lunch. As I brought it to the table, nine-year-old Trey asked casually, “Grandma, did you make this pie just like the one you made last week?”
“No, sweetie,” I replied. “It’s different. Why?”
“Well, I don’t want to complain,” Trey replied, “but that one wasn’t exactly like your other pumpkin pies.”
Needless to say, I was impressed with his tact. He was impressed with the new pie; so were his brothers. They didn’t even need ice cream to go with it.
And if Daddy happened to be looking down, I’m certain he was smiling as he noticed that the pie shell and all the other courses of the dinner were homemade.
I looked in the refrigerator for the boxed pie shells, and pulled them out to check the dates. One box read Nov 2011; the other, Feb 2012. Maybe the most recent date would still be good. I tore into it to check and my heart sank when I saw the black spot in the middle of the circle of dough.
“Shoot! Now I’ll have to go to the store before I can produce that promised pie,” I said to myself.
From out of nowhere came the voice of reason in my father’s deep tones and I could have sworn he was in the room instead of in my head; “Mary Ann, you don’t have to go to the store. You have all the ingredients right there in your pantry—two kinds of flour, Crisco, salt, water. Your rolling pin is right up there in the cabinet gathering dust. I remember your homemade pie shells as being rather tasty. I also remember when you didn’t serve anything that wasn’t homemade. What happened that you now have to go to the store to produce a pie shell?”
So I took out my rolling pin, dusted it off, and prepared to make a pie shell for the pumpkin baking in the oven. For the first time, I used my Ninja to mix the dough and was most impressed with its speed and efficiency. In less time than it would have taken me to drive the 7 miles to town, roam around the store a while, maybe stop and talk to a couple of folks, and drive the 7 miles back, I had a lovely pie shell lining a deep-dish pie plate. I had saved myself some time and probably a substantial sum of money because I can never seem to go in the grocery store and come back out with just the two items I went for. I go for pie shells and come back with a trunk loaded with everything from potting soil to detergent. If it’s a good day, I actually get the pie shells, too.
By now the pumpkin is baked but rather pale. I ignore the color and continue with my pie. After 50 minutes in the oven, the shell comes out beautifully browned, but the filling is still pale. We patiently cool it, but when I’ve served it with ice cream (another anomaly), I’m disappointed. It tastes watered-down. The taste of cinnamon, cloves, and ginger overpower the pumpkin taste. The boys don’t complain, but I notice the ice cream disappears while the pumpkin pie remains.
Larry tastes the pie and informs me that somebody told him the pumpkin would taste like that if it got too much water when it was ripening. I’d never heard of such a thing, but something was obviously wrong. I just knew I’d gone to a lot of trouble for a washed-out pumpkin. The main problems were the disappointment and the cleaning of the kitchen. Yet the boys didn’t complain. They just ate their ice cream and nibbled at the pie.
Today I served them another pie with Fathers’ Day lunch. As I brought it to the table, nine-year-old Trey asked casually, “Grandma, did you make this pie just like the one you made last week?”
“No, sweetie,” I replied. “It’s different. Why?”
“Well, I don’t want to complain,” Trey replied, “but that one wasn’t exactly like your other pumpkin pies.”
Needless to say, I was impressed with his tact. He was impressed with the new pie; so were his brothers. They didn’t even need ice cream to go with it.
And if Daddy happened to be looking down, I’m certain he was smiling as he noticed that the pie shell and all the other courses of the dinner were homemade.
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