In an attempt to function highly and participate in society, I volunteered to make the pies for Thanksgiving this year with my new in-laws! Since I am a new wife and mother, it seemed fitting. My 36 year-old domestic skills would surely spill over into the baking area, even though I never bake and am historically ill-fitted to the task. But I had a premature baby this year. I lived in the NICU for two weeks. I have a three year-old. I have a job. I can make pie crust from scratch now, I was sure of it. And because I love cooking and have spent too much time watching The Chew, The Pioneer Woman, Top Chef and Anthony Bourdain, I feel that I have heard these people yell at me me through the television enough to easily make my own roasted pumpkin puree as well. So, no canned pumpkin puree either! No frozen pie crust, no pre-made pie filling! This pumpkin pie would be entirely from scratch and entirely dripping with feminine power and deep, casual, domestic accomplishment. Before I knew it, my bravery had overtaken me and I was headed down the heady road of Thanksgiving Meal Participant Cook.
I consulted the experts: my Best Friend (and best pie-maker I know), My Aunt (and designated family secret-keeper), the recipe on the label of a can of pumpkin puree' in the grocery store, and, of course, the internet. I made purchases: Two baking pumpkins, jar of clove, restock of ginger, evaporated milk, et cetera. I even made plans for my child to participate! I had done it all! I had done my part. I am no fool, so I bought enough for a practice round and scheduled it for the weekend, figuring I would make two, they would both probably turn out fine, and I could just use my practice pie for the Thanksgiving meal itself. All the pumpkin pies I had made in the past had turned out fine, so these probably would too, especially now that I was a grown woman who is used to cooking all the time and had so much love to pour into my cooking, which I know is the most important ingredient. When you know that, your cooking can't be bad.
When that slow afternoon time finally came, my three year-old daughter and I joyfully chopped up the first pumpkin just the way the ever-helpful and overly-simple photos that the Pioneer Woman's blog always tells me to. (http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/make-your-own-pumpkin-puree/)
We immediately hit a road block with the second pumpkin, when I found it completely impossible to cut into! The pumpkin skin felt and sounded exactly as though I was trying to slice through a nutshell. I was forced to call in my husband for tactical assistance, and he eventually had to assassinate the pumpkin with great difficulty through a series of hacks with a meat cleaver, hard chips flying. He managed to hack a round hole large enough to pull the seeds through, and I found that the ever-loved pale orange pumpkin slime was brown, there was no thick strip of glowing orange meat, and it was filled instead with three inches of dry fibers. The skin had formed a rock-hard, thin shell beneath the nest of fibers. We had never seen anything like it. It was a bad-y.
My plan for two pies was now cut to one. Undeterred, my three year-old and I spoon-scraped the pumpkin wedges, fully activating her gag reflex, and stuck them in the oven to roast for 40 minutes. They came out with thick, big strings in the middle and darkened crusty tips. I peeled the skins off the back with my fingers and a knife, and proceeded to mash them with a metal potato masher. The instructions sweet Ree Drummond gave me SAID I could use a masher instead of a mixer, because for reasons unknown to me, we do not currently have an electric mixer in our kitchen. So there I was, smashing my little pumpkin's heart out, for ages and ages, until I could smash no more. I left it there to cool and started my pie crust.
After carefully following the notes my Aunt had given me over the phone, I was left with a giant, hard, crumbly ball of dough, which crushed gently into a thousand dusty pieces when pressed into with a rolling pin. I attempted for a very long time, sending withering glances in the direction of the words "DO NOT OVERWORK", to roll out the dough into a circle, and then roll that circle onto my rolling pin and roll it back off into the pie pan, which was a "helpful tip" my husband had given me. After many minutes of failure and several attempts, I finally impatiently slapped the thousand pieces of dough onto my rolling pin, and rolled the thousand crumbles into the pan. At this point a seasoned pie crust-maker might be thinking that I needed to add some water, but no. I had already added more water and more water and more water. Nevertheless, I felt the same way you might, so I added even MORE water and smashed the thousand pieces of dust into one lumpy, hard, sad mess in the pie tin, barely high enough to go up the sides of the pan, let alone flower over the top and fall like twenty six perfect flower petals into a gorgeous, perfect crust. No, I did not even get a crust at all this pie-round.
I left the waiting pie crust with a grimace and turned to my "homemade pumpkin puree", saw a pile of small fibers of pumpkin cut into a tiny bits, and started to wonder about the level of rustic-ness I was aiming for with this pie. I hoped the fibers would somehow disintegrate and disappear while baking.
I warily put together the pumpkin custard mix. After careful analysis of several other pumpkin pie recipes, I made my decision on the spices and added ginger (while enjoying a light-bulb moment that perhaps using fresh ginger might be a thing), clove, and cinnamon. There was no nutmeg, f I thought we had some but we didn't. I mentally added this fact to my list of Life Failures. I used about a tablespoon each of the clove, cinnamon and ginger. We added the eggs, the evaporated milk, and the sugar. I poured the slop into the pock-marked pie crust and shoved it in the oven for 40 minutes. I gave my husband a second order to go get the heavy whipping cream that I had forgotten at the store, but he had taken a good hard look at my pie crust and clearly did not feel a trip to the store was in order.
The pie came out a dark orange. It was thick and rough-looking. When I pushed my fork through it, it was juicy and dense and EXTREMELY rustic, with pieces of pumpkin fibers and blackened chunks actually sticking out of the custard. I felt certain, for a moment, that I had accidentally made a new kind of most incredible pie, a Rustic Roasted Pumpkin Pie recipe that Ina Garten would feature on her next Holiday special and the entire cast of The Chew would tweet from their personal Twitter accounts.
Upon tasting the wet mess, though, the custard was filled with fibers of pumpkin pieces that were the size of spaghetti and had the crispness of a raw carrot. Oh. God. The spices were so heavy that while I enjoyed it at the time, a few minutes later I went to bed with a stomachache that did not leave until morning. The crust was sharp and thick and crumbly and dry. My husband politely managed to never even try it at all. My three year-old ate two helpings, though, and so did I, making myself believe just for a moment that pie can be wet and crispy and dry and gritty AND delicious, all at the same time, when it's Rustic.
The pie sat abandoned on the counter all evening and night while I slept in agony, it was too awful to even be put away, and in the morning I threw the rotten, crunchy gut bomb in the garbage. My practice run, while well-researched and prepared, was an abject failure. What would I do? My ingredients were running dangerously low, and money was extremely tight. I needed more pumpkins. I needed a mixer! I needed more everything! I needed success! I needed to give up!
How would this potentially nightmarish Thanksgiving disaster be remedied so I could live to tell the tale? Would I be forced to do it the old-fashioned way? Would I be a domestic disappointment in the face of my new mother-in-law? Would I let my whole family down once again? (Just kidding, they literally didn't even care.)
Find out in Part 2, coming soon!