In memorium

About a month ago my husband, displaying great sensitivity, informed me that he would be taking the 31 October off in order to spend it with me in whatever way I chose. He had anticipated the need for me to mark the first anniversary of my father's death in some special way, and set me thinking about it in plenty of time to make plans for the day.

As I thought about the question of how I would like to spend the day, I found myself remembering years gone by, and the activities we used to enjoy as a family, principally in relation to pumpkins.

Even as adults, when I have gone home at this time of year, we have played with pumpkins, carving them in more intricate patterns than we would have had the patience for as children.

But in relation to my dad, what I found myself thinking about most, was the making of his own special version of pumpkin pie.

Every year at the pumpkin patch (an American tradition I have found no parallel for in the UK) we selected a few carving pumpkins and at least one cooking pumpkin, and the process of preparing the cooking pumpkin and turning it into Papa's delicious pumpkin pies took much longer than the carving of triangle eyes and a crooked mouth.


Memories of chunks of pumpkin boiling on the stove, the steady scrape of the metal food mill as it mashed the cooked pumpkin into pulp and dad carefully balancing a pastry filled to the brim with liquid pie ingredients as he slid it into the oven filled my head. So I decided that, in memory of dad, I would find a big pumpkin and turn it into pies, but who would eat the pies? This led to the idea of having an autumnal themed meal with friends on the 31st. I was responsible for the pies, patient husband arranged everything else.

Finding a pumpkin of the required size was the first challenge, but eventually we brought home this one:

I cut it, cleaned it, and began the process of chopping it into chunks for boiling:

From noon until past 5 o'clock, successive pans full of pumpkin chunks simmered away, while I scooped the hot pumpkin out of the skins and ground it through the food mill:

In the midst of the pumpkin processing I took the time to prepare pastry for four pies: two normal, two gluten free; two pumpkin, two pecan:

About 5:30pm, I took out of the oven my two special pumpkin pies:

By that time I had finished processing all of the pumpkin. I somewhat over estimated the amount of pumpkin needed. I think I have enough for about six more pies!

When I had finished with the pumpkin, I quickly put together the pecan pies, using dad's favourite: blackstrap molasses.

When our guests had eaten enough of the food they had brought themselves, I brought out my four special pies with sweet whipped cream, and set them on the table to share in remembrance of my father.

So it was that Thursday night our house was filled with the smells of pie and hot mulled apple juice, the sounds of laughter and chatting and the sight of a table laden with special autumnal foods prepared and brought by our friends to complement my pies.
At one point I sat in the living room, listening to our guests laughing and chatting in the dinning room. The sounds of fellowship, love, affection. I couldn't think of any better way to remember my father - using my body to prepare for others his special dish, appropriate to the time of year, serving others as he had done his entire life. As my mind wandered in weariness, I thought how I loved and missed him, and I knew he would always be with me, in the legacy of his love and care that is in me that I can pass on to others.