Life of (pumpkin) π

Growing up Thanksgiving meant turkey, ham, Caesar salad, mashed potatoes, stuffing (I never convince myself to try the stuffing, to me it always looked like something the bird had thrown up), gravy (I didn't take this either; it remindes me of what comes out of the other end), garlic bread, meatballs, holopchi, perogies, other Ukrainian foods that my spell checker doesn't recognize, pumpkin pie, whipped cream, additional assorted diabetes inducing desserts, second helpings of everything and, eventually, undoing the top button on my pants.

One year we deep fried the bird... insert heart palpitations here.

These festive binges included the usual suspects of immediate family members and a few faces that I only saw once or twice a year - and the only things we really had in common were the heaping plates of food in front of us. Conversation was politely forced, as I imagine it usually is when a large group of people who only have turkey in common are forced to politely converse.

At eighteen years of age, to my parents horror, I took the vow of a vegetarian and swore off eating anything with a face. It was deemed a "passing fad" and I was left to fend for myself at the family dinner table. When my first Thanksgiving rolled around, I won't lie, I struggled a little. It's hard to be satisfied with a dinner roll and perogies with the bacon bits picked off when everyone else is chowing down on a meaty feast. That year the topic of conversation was my dietary decision. I threw the first stone. I tried and failed (horribly) to convert anyone at that table to my vegetable loving ways. They, in return, put me on the spot and critically questioned my choice. I was unprepared and I was out numbered. I'm pretty sure even the turkey said "eat me!!" When the pumpkin pie came around, I dove in. This was the one part of Thanksgiving that I could share with my family and enjoy. I hadn't been robbed of this delicious seasonal treat. I had seconds.

I stuck to my guns, I livened up the table talk, I learned a valuable lesson. It was the last time I told anyone they shouldn't eat meat. I hated being attacked for my choice. What right do I have to attack another persons choice? Eat, or don't eat, whatever you want. I'll even cook it for you, just to prove my point.

Last year was my first Thanksgiving in Ottawa. I was lucky enough to have my parents fly in from Manitoba and my favorite franc'o friend, Laura, buss in from Montreal. She brought a sugar pie (only the french could dream up such a food) which I may have well just slapped on my thighs because I ate the whole damn thing. Steve and I rounded out the crowd with a few more friendly faces, I preheated the oven the 425F, poped in two of Loblaws finest frozen lasagnas (one veggie, one meaty). Dole provided us with a tasty pre-washed bagged salad, and a few other side dishes "magically" appeared... I didn't fuss. The grocery store made our meal, I just heated it up. But there was a home-made pumpkin pie (the sugar pie having magically disappeared at this point), and I can take credit for that.

The next day we drove down to Montreal and feasted on smoked meat sandwiches (I ate a really big pickle).

A bit of an unconventional Thanksgiving but no one complained.

This year there was no family, no franco'friend Laura, and no sugar pie. I missed them all.

This year there was turkey, and stuffing and all of the fixings. This year there was pumpkin pie. This year it was all from scratch (except for the stuffing, that came in a box... and I still think it looks like turkey vom). This year I fussed.

I am thankful that the godzilla-bird fit into my oven and that nothing burned or caught on fire. I am thankful that I didn't get saddled with doing the dishes. I am thankful that there are enough leftovers to feed Steve all week and that I will not have to cook.

This year a Spaniard, Palestinian, Somalian, Pollack, Ukrainian, and Yogini sat around a table that was just a little too small and shared so much more than a meal. We shared our stories, our music, our talents... there was sketching, spoken word, and I'm pretty sure the dog broke into a dance. At the end of the night, sugar pie or no sugar pie, my heart was happy.

Today there were no smoked meat sandwiches and no giant pickles. Today there was sunshine, and dog park, and a long run, and a coffee with a great friend, and a coffee with my fiancee, and quality time with quality people, and a really grateful pumpkin on my dining room table.

Next year I don't know where I'll be or who I'll be with. I don't think I will roast a turkey again. Tofurkey maybe, but I am not sticking my hand up a bird's butt ever again. Ever. I hope there will be great friends and conversation, and dancing, and singing and sugar pie.

I hope everyones Thanksgiving was as wonderful as mine. Gobble.

Editors note

Sugar pie is a single-crust pie with a filling made from flour, butter, salt, vanilla, and cream, with brown sugar or maple syrup (sometimes both) often used as additional filler. When baked, these ingredients combine into a homogeneous mixture similar to caramel.

Just incase anyone was thinking of making it for me.... here's the recipe.

Igredients:
Unbaked 9 1/2 inch tart shell
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
2 tablespoons flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup heavy cream

Directions:
Set the oven rack in the middle position. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Combine brown sugar, flour, and salt in a mixing bowl. Sprinkle mixture evenly over bottom of tart shell. Add vanilla to heavy cream and pour over mixture, spreading lightly with an offset spatula. Bake approximately 35 minutes, or until pastry is golden brown and filling is dark and bubbling. Cool on a rack. Serve slightly warm.