Our Thanksgiving looked a little different this year, as it was our first without Grandma Glass of Milk.
Don’t worry, dear readers, I got all my tears out the second Judy Garland broke into “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” when The Wizard of Oz was on TV earlier in the week. So. Many. Tears.
As such, new traditions were in order, and those began with dinner at my aunt’s house. My uncle has an enormous family, and so our little Thanksgiving went from a feast fit for 10, to one at least three times that size. I was in charge of dessert. You’re shocked, aren’t you? I was also in charge of worrying that I wouldn’t have enough leftovers to make a Thanksgiving leftover sandwich. When Thanksgiving was at Grandma Glass of Milk’s, we made enough food for 30, but needed only split the remains among we-10. Thus, everyone went home with leftovers for days. I wasn’t sure how our new setup was going to work. And I knew that I was not going to be a happy camper if my Thanksgiving weekend did not include a leftover sandwich. I was ready to awkwardly stalk around the kitchen until we started divvying up what was left of the great meal.
But, in the same vein as the miracle of the loaves and fishes, or the burning of the oil that lasted eight nights instead of one, we had more leftovers than we knew what to do with. As in, we never cooked the second turkey someone brought as insurance. As in, when opening an “extra” bakery box to find a home for the remains of the pie, we found cookies that never even made it to the table. The next box beneath it was filled with petit fours. As in, I went home with bags upon bags of stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and more pie than I thought possible.
Which is funny, because I also arrived with more pie than I thought possible.
And yet, here we are, several days post-feast, with a refrigerator chock-full of pie. I’ve sent leftover pie home with family, brought leftover pie to my in-laws, and given what can only be described as a crap-ton away to a friend, and still there is more pie. The pie will not go away. It’s haunting us.
I think I made too much.
Whoa, I’ve never uttered those words.
But I get carried away when given free reign in the kitchen. It’s decidedly more dangerous to task me with “dessert” as opposed to one or two concrete dishes. And so I made a lot of food. Including pecan tart, which I don’t eat. I used a Williams Sonoma recipe, because that’s not a source that has ever led me astray. And my mother in law and sister in law couldn’t stop raving about how it was the best they’d ever had. Not too sweet, and that touch of bourbon and orange zest put it over the top. You’ll have to take their words for it, dear readers, because you won’t get mine.