To me, Thanksgiving is all about pies.

I’m a sloppy baker, which is like being a blind bus driver or a tone-deaf singer. But once a year, I’m tasked with making the pies for our extended family dinner. Because I’m not a big fan of dinner–no chocolate!–I consider the pies the main course.

Also, I’m all about leftovers. This is why I make about nine pies. That is, I “supervise” the making of about nine pies.  The kids do all the work, while my cousins and I sit in the living room, watch football, drink wine, and call in helpful tips such as, “You need a step-stool to reach the fire alarm. Press it twice. Twice!”

Baking is a finicky business.

But now, the tweens and teens are all off in college or “having a life” or just grumpily staring into their cell phones, so I am alone in my kitchen, rolling and mixing and tasting and second-tasting-just-to-be-sure. One more taste…one more.

The pies were lovely.  There were fewer of them this year, as the younger generation is scattered. Not as many leftovers, either. But maybe that’s best, as there are fewer people to eat them the next morning. I look around my kitchen–just me and the cats.

They like the crusts.

I like the filling.

We’re a pretty good team.

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