Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
>From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,--our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin pie!
-- John Greenleaf Whittier, The Pumpkin
Dagnabbit, TypePad ate my comment. Let’s try this again…
Thank you, dear e.
It has taken me a lot of lousy, overbaked pumpkin pies to get to one this good. The trick, I’ve found (other than the two-stage cooking I mentioned before), is to take the pie out of the oven when there is a tangerine-sized circle in the middle of the pie that is still jiggly—not soupy, but not set, either. The residual heat will finish cooking the pie, and you won’t get that starburst crack that always comes from overbaking.
As far as the pumpkin-cutting conundrum goes, I still haven’t found the answer to that. I have nearly lost thumbs trying to cut a butternut squash in half. I bought a kabocha squash a few weeks ago, and ended up having to hack it up in lemon-sized pieces, which was an adventure. Maybe this can be my winter project, cracking the code on those damn squashes.
Happy Thanksgiving to you, lovely Kimberly, and to Paul and the McKittens as well.
Rabid, my sweet, we have plenty of leftovers if you’re still hungry. Admittedly, we’re going through the pie at at a rapid clip, but here’s the thing: I can always make more.