On Our Merry Way To Pumpkin Pie 11.26.03

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and in the spirit of things, and because I enjoy procrastination, I decided to look up pumpkin pie lyrics. I mean pumpkin pie recipes, a pumpkin pie is beautiful but I can’t go so far as to call it a song.

I lollygagged about making the pie. But better that way, since my mother made it home while I was in the preparation stages. The reasons why I want to make a pie are twofold. First is for the sheer pumpkin goodness of it. The best fall vegetable, by far, bar none. The second is because since I have moved home, my cooking skills have diminished; they are not instinctual anymore. I have no rhythm about creating desserts, no sense about meats, no flair with vegetables. I have laziness and I’ll be damned if I’m ordering in all the time (no offense, Silver).

So in the beginning of the process my mother was kind enough to give me tips. Like grate the ginger over a plate instead of trying to get it into a small cup. I’m not always the swiftest. She also introduced me to the magic of egg whipping.

“Until peaks form?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

Apparently it means make your egg whites frothy and like the snowdrifts in Alaska, hiding the ptarmigans. Yes, Eben, ptarmigans exist. Fold into the orange mixture. Oven’s preheated? Wait, the glass pan is in the oven, resting from its last use, cleaned and heavy and deep and brown. It’s already been heated. Should have checked it before, oh well. It leaves the oven and into the sink.

Now here is something I intuitively don’t do. Not because I think of the possible dangers, but rather that it just seems like an unnecessary thing to do. My mother gives the assist, puts the pan in the sink. I am placing the pie in the oven. She is turning on the water, cold. This is not a good idea.

Simply because the pan exploded.

That is not hyperbole.

There is a bang and then there are brown glass squares and rectangles, at least a half-inch thick, over the floor. They flew in the air and about the sink. They are in a heap in the approximate size and shape of the original pan. They are around my mother. None of them hit her, I guess. None of them hit me. The water still runs and we hear the sound of a couple more popping. Pop. Pop. Pop.

p.s., the pie is looking good but will be saved for tomorrow; my brother and I got my mother dancing to the funk (Give Up The Funk by P-Funk, Hollywood Swinging by Kool + The Gang, Baby You Bring Me Up by the Commodores, Rock Steady by Aretha, Soul Music by Curtis) which is a great way to make her feel involved and loved and fun as mothers like to; and I am going to run to the effing grocery store which should be cruddy.