I know this, of course, from experience.
My gramma Evalyne baked a few pies for my dad's 10th birthday. And she baked a few more for his 11th. Over a period of years, the Saturday before Halloween was affectionately dubbed Pumpkin Pie Day. And in 2011, the 39th annual Pumpkin Pie Day, our last with our precious gramma, we baked 154 pumpkin pies.
Gramma Evalyne, Pumpkin Pie Day 2007
Thursday mornings were for preparing the long-neck [butter-nut] squash - pressure cooking to perfection and scooping the good stuff from the now-tender skin. Fridays were for making the crust [combining simple ingredients by hand], rolling them all out [no small task], mixing the squash with all the good stuff [in four-gallon Tupperware containers with a paint stirrer attached to a drill], filling each crust, and baking. Saturdays were for opening your home [no matter the messy-ness or lack of space], enjoying the best pumpkin pie I've ever had [my humble, but biased opinion], spending time with family and friends, and listening to the best music I'll never hear again.
Gramma mixing her crust, Pumpkin Pie Day 2009
First pie from the oven, Pumpkin Pie Day 2011
What was my regular Saturday-before-Halloween, I actually came to know was sacred.
This day taught me many things over the years - the importance of family, the beauty in feeding good food to the people you love. But it continues to teach me deeper lessons as I attempt to honor my gramma and this day year after year. She didn't wait for someone to invite her over; she gathered her people. She didn't only gather her people when her house was in perfect order; they were welcomed despite the mess of a house well lived-in. She didn't buy can after can of pumpkin from the grocery store [although there's no shame in that]; she cultivated and lovingly tended to her garden, and her long-neck squash, all Spring, Summer and Fall in affectionate anticipation of this day. She didn't insist on doing it all herself; she had a team of brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, granddaughters, grandsons, friends who willing sacrificed these days to be a part of something beautiful. [And I'll add that it didn't feel like a sacrifice, it felt like a privilege.]
Gramma and her sisters, Pumpkin Pie Day 2009
And this year, as I attempted to take her recipe for 20 pies [!!!], and divide each ingredient by roughly 1/12 to just make 2 [what is five pounds of sugar divided by 12? I don't know either. Guess inserted here.], I was reminded that the beauty is in the attempt, whether the pie tasted like gramma's pumpkin pie or not. Such a hard lesson when you just want to taste gramma's pie one more time. I have cried in years past [ok, every year since she's been gone], so discouraged when it didn't turn out like hers, even when it was good. But not this year. This year I told myself she was honored in my attempt. And I know that it is true.
Daddy and I, Pumpkin Pie Day 2015
I am so very thankful for such a rich heritage, for a gramma who has taught and will continue to teach me lessons, long after her passing. Not because of anything she ever said to us, but because of the way she lived her life, day after day, year upon year - pouring herself out for the things and the people she loved so well.
My beautiful gramma, Pumpkin Pie Day 2008
