What is it about pumpkin pie? Why don’t we have it every day of the year? Why do I have to wait until fall? And who made the first pumpkin pie anyway? Who looked at a giant orange squash and said to him or herself, “Hey, if we scooped out all of the horrible webby stuff in the center and boiled the rind, we could add sugar and spices and make an incredible dessert!”
Whoever this person was, wherever that momentous occasion occurred, I thank him or her. Eating a piece of warm pumpkin pie is like having your grandmother’s arms wrapped around you. Big, fleshy arms that smelled like Avon’s Here’s My Heart and could churn hand-cranked ice cream for an hour without slowing down. There should be anthems written to pumpkin pie. Soliloquies. Sonnets. Eating pumpkin pie is something that must be done with the eyes closed, in a room full of people who love you. You can’t be completely quiet when you’re eating pumpkin pie. Oh, no. There must be sudden gasps and quiet moans of appreciation.
I think I’m going to keep one in the freezer. Hey, maybe I’ll freeze a couple of them. And then, all during the year when there isn’t enough money, or I get paint on my favorite slacks, or someone says something that hits me the wrong way, I’ll thaw my pie, pop it in the oven, and seek refuge in its savory goodness.