Baked in a Pie
Oh me, Oh my,
nearly perfect pumpkin pie.
Take one pumpkin,
the one on the left, with the curly stem.
The straight one called for attention,
and, while quite well formed,
and, no this is no metaphor,
I chose another.
Cleaned and steamed
a glass of wine between,
meant a closer call than bargained for,
watched pots may never boil, but attention is required
use a sharp knife to remove any over-caremalized bits.
I used to mash and blend by hand, a purist
that I was. Now, hand blender like a wand
thus powered, a whizzing wizard
and with sugars and spice blend potions
to shining velvet sheen.
Eggs and milk, healthy
until I found the cream.
Fill one pie crust baked, crisp and warm.
I used to cringe at crusts, they seemed
a touch too much, grandmothers’ secrets
out of my league. But recently, I’ve dared
and found that the secret is in simplicity
and perhaps, following a recipe?
Another metaphor, too many,
already, and not even half-baked.
Bake until a fork comes out clean,
serve chilled or hot, with cream, or not.
I tried both and found, perfection not in looks
but in this cook’s eye.
A slice of fall’s promise kept;
crust as crisp as fallen leaves,
custard smooth and rich as silk, holding
warmth of spice within.