Eight Pies for Six People

Thanksgiving is the only time of the year I make pie.

I’m not a pie person the rest of the year. I’ll make you a cake, a cobbler, a crisp, a pan of brownies, and when everything is too much, cookies. But pie? Pie is a November thing. And in November, I make eight of them.

Every year, somebody looks at the dessert spread and says some version of “You know you didn’t have to do all this, right?” I know. I wanted to. And I didn’t set out to make eight pies. The pies just grew.

When we first moved to Atlanta, Thanksgiving was at Dave and Barb’s house. (He’s David to everyone else, but he’s Dave to us.) Sharon and Jerry drove in from Baton Rouge, and Sharon was in charge of the meal. Barb, who doesn’t cook and is perfectly fine with me saying so, was in charge of cleanup. I was Sharon’s sous chef, and I was in charge of dessert.

That first year, I made two pies out of my Texas Junior League cookbooks: pumpkin and Kahlua pecan. Barb fell in love with the pecan. I said I’d make it again.

The next year, cherry pie filling was on sale, and I had a spare bag of cranberries, so I dumped the cranberries into the cherry filling. Dave raved about that one. I said I’d make it again.

That same year, I announced I was going to ditch the pumpkin pie in favor of the new ones, and everyone revolted. You can’t have Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie. Fair.

Around 2005 or 2006, when Kevin and I had moved into our big rental house, I decided I was going to make mincemeat from scratch. A spicy all-fruit mince with pears, apples, quince, nutmeg, and lots of golden raisins. I loved it. Everyone else was okay with it. I decided I didn’t care. I would have mince pie. Some years it’s been a full pie, some years hand pies, some years tarts. But I will have my mince pie. I’m the one making all these pies, so I get what I want.

In 2012, I met Zach, and Zach declared that the only real pie was a chocolate cream or chocolate silk pie. That got added.

Then Kevin’s apple came along.

In 2020, the year of Covid, nobody could gather at our table, so I made a bunch of pies and delivered them instead.

And in 2021, when Ari joined our table, they asked if I’d ever made a pear ginger pie. I said no, but I’d love to try. That’s how pear ginger, sometimes with frangipane, became part of the rotation.

And suddenly I was making a pie per person, plus a pumpkin pie for the table.

So here’s where we’ve landed. The table is the same six people every year: me, Zach, Dave, Barb, Kevin, and Ari. Sometimes more, but always those six. Kahlua pecan is Barb’s. Cherry cranberry is Dave’s. Chocolate is Zach’s. Pear ginger is Ari’s. Apple is Kevin’s. Mince is mine. And pumpkin belongs to nobody and everybody, because it’s Thanksgiving. (One year I made the pumpkin pie and then turned it into a layered trifle. Will I ever do that again? Maybe.)

That’s seven. The eighth is the experiment.

Every year I try something new, and it might or might not earn a permanent spot. Last year it was key lime. I love key lime pie. Zach does not. And honestly, it didn’t fit. Key lime is a summer pie; it doesn’t belong next to pumpkin and pecan in November. So it didn’t make the cut. This year’s experiment? I have no idea yet. I’ll know when I know.

There’s one more rule. If someone new comes to the table, they get asked what their pie is, and I add one for them. Which is how eight pies for six people turns into nine for seven, and nobody blinks.

All of it gets a big bowl of brown sugar whipped cream.

Nobody eats just their own pie, though. Everybody shares, and it’s completely normal to see a single dessert plate with six slivers of six different pies under a layer of whipped cream. That’s the point. You get your pie, and you get a taste of everyone else’s.

Now, before you picture me in the kitchen for three days straight, here’s how it actually works. The crusts get made a week or two ahead and go into the freezer. Pumpkin and pecan get baked the day before. The cream pie happens that morning. The apple gets timed so it’s still a little warm when we sit down.

And the morning after, when I shuffle into the kitchen for coffee, there’s cold pumpkin pie waiting for me. If you’ve never had cold pumpkin pie with your morning coffee, you’re missing out.

What’s your Thanksgiving pie? If you were at my table, what would I be making for you? Let me know in the comments.

P.S. This year, there’s a twist. Kevin has volunteered to make the cherry cranberry and the apple. Which means I may wind up with some free time on my hands for an extra pie. Or not.

P.P.S. And before you decide I’ve lost it, I’m not alone. Over at Slate, David Plotz wrote about his mother’s Thanksgiving: 20 guests, 19 pies. Next to her, I’m practically restrained.

P.P.P.S. Yes, I own eight pie dishes. Six of them are Emile Henry, and four of those I found at HomeGoods for $10 each. I walked around the store clutching those dishes to my chest like lost children.