The Best Worst Pie Ever

       I went running with EuroSMAC last week. As I may have mentioned, it's been a little wet around here, and the trail was a little splashy. We slogged through some serious mud, baptizing our fancy running shoes. Then we charged up a rocky and uneven hill at a speed far zippier than my usual trot. This is what I get for running with teenagers. So I decided that, as revenge for their efforts to improve my fitness, and since I was hearing a little whining about the mud and hills, I would share some of the wisdom that comes with age.
       "Girls," I began (pant . . . gasp). "Did it ever strike you that sometimes the worst experiences make the best memories?"
       I was thinking about the run, made both more difficult and more memorable by the adversity. Then I thought about how many of the experiences I've shared in this Blog are memorable because they were difficult. Climbing the Salève wasn't fun at the time. Neither was being lost in Italy. Being locked in a subterranean garage was certainly no picnic. But how much more memorable were those experiences than all the times I have successfully parked the car, all the pleasant hikes along flat trails, and all the smooth car trips we've taken (actually, I don't think there have been any of those). When I told the dad of EuroSMAC's other member my musings, he said that adversity is memorable because our lives are easy. If life was full of adversity, it would be the moments of respite that we remembered. I'm sure he's right, but that's more philosophical than I really want to be right now. Right now, I want to write about The Pie.
         It was Thanksgiving, and I was probably in my early teens. We were at my Grandma Emy and Grandpa Bob's house in Indiana with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. My dad and his sister, my Aunt Jane, decided, with no discernible provocation that this year, they would bake a pumpkin pie. This was not a decision made lightly. Pumpkin pie is my dad's favorite dessert. He often asks for it for his birthday, which is in July. In addition, our family includes several experienced and fully competent pie makers. Nevertheless, Dad and Aunt Jane would make the pie. And they would do it right. From the beginning. From scratch. No Libby's canned pumpkin for them.
          I think the first mistake was the pumpkin they chose. Whether from pure lack of knowledge or from a desire to use up leftovers, they cooked up a Jack O'Lantern pumpkin, rather than the small variety usually used in pies. Actually, maybe the choice was motivated by a good old American love of the large. Without a blender, they simply cooked and mashed the pumpkin flesh. They then mixed in the Carnation milk, spices, eggs, and heaven-only-knows what else, and poured it all into a crust they had made. Probably the crust was made from stone-ground whole wheat flour, in some sort of misguided effort to make the pie healthful. Then they slid the whole thing in the oven.
           The pie was stringy, chewy, with crust like cardboard. In an effort to redeem the whole thing as a joke, they covered the top with shaving cream and set it out on the sideboard. No one was fooled. As a culinary experience, the pie may have been among the worst I have seen; it is, nevertheless, one of my favorite holiday memories. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!