Pumpkin Pies — The Vegetable Vagabond Makes a Great Pie

1876

We generally have them made of squash at our house, but always call them pumpkin, it sounds so much better. Squash is a dreadful name, and the man who invented it ought to have had a big Hubbard hurled at his head, as Ichabod Crane was served with a pumpkin, in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." But pumpkin is altogether a different word, whether it adorns a bill of fare, is woven into poetry, or is flattened into "pu-n-n-kin, as genial Robert Collyer does it. It is one of the old-fashioned vegetables, that has held its own among upstart rivals for a hundred years.

Precious little help has the pumpkin had from the propagating gardeners who are so intent on improving nature's productions in other fields The pumpkin is the, same honest, homespun self-made sort of vegetable vagabond it was when it straggled through the corn fields, and dotted the autumn landscape with spots of a golden color, in the pioneer days when luxuries were not necessities, and wants were few. They pretend to say that the quality has deteriorated, like some strains of blood in men whose heads this useful vegetable has most uncharitably been made to symbolize, and that the flesh is white and poor compared with what it was in former years. Yet this may be merely the croak of the old-time worshippers. But, whether made true to name or of sq——sh, a pumpkin pie, if rightly made, is a thing of beauty, and a joy, while it lasts.

We know there is an attempt made by certain super-civilized writers — of the sort who order for dinner "a little tea-ah and toast, wa-tah, and a chicken's wing" — to make abstinence from pie a test of refinement. Some of them haven't gastric juice enough to digest anything but a weak wash of some sort; but others are just putting on airs. We wouldn't trust some of the fellows who make a virtue of abhoring pie alone with a whole one behind the kitchen door — even at eleven o'clock at night. A well-made pie, of the right sort, is a good deal more wholesome than half of the modern masses concocted as a concession to dyspeptics, who charge upon healthful food the natural result of their own sin and ignorance in working without exercise, sleeping too little, and neglecting other normal conditions of right living.

But to return to our pies. We scorn to make a cook book of these columns, with our present supply of technical knowledge; but we do know that for a good pumpkin pie you want plenty of milk, just enough eggs, not too much pumpkin, a lump of butter, and a judicious sprinkling of spices — principally cinnamon and ginger. The concoction, when ready for the oven, should be about the consistency of good thick cream. Pies that cut out only a little less firm than a pine board — those that will "wabble" without breaking, like a piece of leather — and those that run around loose on your plate, are alike to be avoided. About an inch thick strikes us a good depth for the filling; two inches is better than the miserable thin plasters that one sometimes sees at boarding-houses, that look, for all the world, like pumpkin flapjacks. The expressive phrase "too thin" must have come from such lean parodies on pumpkin pies.

With the pastry light, tender, and not too rich, and a generous filling of smooth, spiced sweetness — a little "trembly" as to consistency, and delicately browned on top — a perfect pumpkin pie, eaten before the life has gone out of it (say three hours after baking), is one of the real additions made by American cookery to the good things of the world. We have our opinion of the man who could get up dissatisfied or cross from a dinner topped off with a quarter-section of such a pie. For the first pumpkin pie of the season, flanked by a liberal cut of creamy cheese and a glass of cider fresh from the press, we prefer to sit down, as the French gourmand said about his boiled turkey, "with just two of us — myself and the turkey!" Company is apt to distract the attention — and subtract from the pie.