1886 - The Days of Pumpkin Pies and Peace

"Gold has always been considered one of the ingredients of the elixir of life, and this pumpkin gold, taken in the form of pie will do as much toward giving one eternal life as anything on this unhappy old globe."

 THERE is something good~natured and honest and wholesome about a pumpkin; something solid and hearty, and a placid rotundity that seems very restful in this lean, nervous, hurrying age of the world. 
When will you see a pleasanter sight in all the sightly month of October than a community of them straggling about among the  cornstooks, and turning up their comfortable, yellow faces to the sun. I always feel my face widening out with unwonted good humor when I look upon their contented countenances. 
What good dispositions they seem to have; —too genial and amiable for this frosty, bovine, pie-loving world. How sociable they are among themselves. Sometimes when I come suddenly out of the woods, or over the hill-top, I catch little groups of them gossiping together, but when I arrive in the family circle every face is blandly blank. That always convinces me that they were talking about some of their human neighbors. Perhaps they are only making estimates of the corn crop for the crows’ Board of Trade, or discussing the probabilities of a frosty night. I have never caught a word of this gossip, although I have heard the murmur of it afar off; nor have I distinctly seen their lips move, or their eyes turn, but late one evening, as I was coming home across the field, I fancied I saw one wink solemnly at me; beneath a big leaf. It might have been the shadow of the wind-shaken leaf, or it might have been a rabbit or gopher that did the winking, but I preferred to believe in the pumpkin. I saved it for seed, in hopes of raising a new winking variety, but although the seed grew famously, the winks failed to develop.

The pumpkin is an indispensable piece of furniture in the cornfield, as well as in the pantry. Was there ever a boy husking corn who did not have one of these golden thrones, thrones fit for kings and princes of the blood? I often rest on one while I wait for my dog to dig out a reluctant mouse from under a cornshock, or while I interview some lonely, frost-nipped husker who is delving pure gold from the brown stooks throwing it in heaps about the field. The pumpkins are gold too,  red Australian gold,  lying about in huge nuggets and to be had for the picking up. If Don Quixote were to see one of our Western cornfields, what a glorious victory he would have over the trembling cornstooks that guard those fields of gold, and what a mass of treasure he would carry away with him, after furnishing himself with a new helmet of pumpkin shell. How the cows and boys would run after him until he mistook them for buffaloes and savages and attacked them with that lance that so valiantly slew the wine-skins.

Gold has always been considered one of the ingredients of the elixir of life, and this pumpkin gold, taken in the form of pie will do as much toward giving one eternal life as anything on this unhappy old globe. Like all elixirs it must be made just right; the proper rites must be observed at the proper times, but when it is done it is something worth doing. and eating, and digesting with care.  It fills one with satisfaction and peace,—-perhaps almost too much satisfaction for the number of pieces.
It is an honor to the woman who invented it, to the woman who makes it—right—and to the man who eats it. It is plain and honest, and worthy of the blessings that are asked over it, which is more than can be said of everything on our tables. I don’t know that one can find a pleasanter appetizer than coming into a warm kitchen on a biting fall day, and encountering a deck-load of pumpkin pies coming out of the oven. and taking flight into the pantry. Life ceases to be a blank. One’s faith in a divine Providence strengthens and grows tangible, and the world seems a good place to be in and stay in. While we are sure of such pies in this world, one hates to try another on uncertainties.

Perhaps our New England grandmothers might have invented a better pie than this, but doubtless they never did, although they came very near it in a certain kind well stuffed with Duchess apples. It is a monument to their memories. wherein their virtues are recorded in letters of pumpkin on tablets of crust, or vice versa.

Though the pumpkin in the field is gold, it is crude; this is the refined gold, stamped and coined in convenient sizes, and it will pass current with any man for what it is worth. The size may seem a little unwieldy for change, but put in the right pocket it incommodes no man or woman, and especially no boy. Where the pumpkin pie is there the boy is, and where the boy is there a goodly share of the pie is, world without end. That is also true of the girl, at least it was of the girl I knew.

If you have ever taught a country school during the months of October and November, and have been present at the mystic hour of midday when dinner-pails yawn and give up their contents, you have had a vision of pumpkin pie, and have seen it in all its varieties and conditions. I had that experience once,—-a pleasant one as I now recall it,--and I used to amuse myself counting the pieces that certain sturdy boys and girls managed to put away under their jackets and aprons. There was one poor, pinched, pieless boy whose parents were averse to pork and pie in all their forms. I shall never forget the hungry, disconsolate way in which he used to watch the other children gorging themselves on the forbidden sweets, like intelligent little anacondas. I longed to fill him up with pie and make him feel like other boys for once in his life, but I feared the curse of his swine hating mother.

To properly finish I ought to give my recipe for pumpkin pie, but alas! all I can say is, “ Make them as your grand-mother made them in the old farmhouse kitchen.” If you cannot do that I sympathize with you, for I cannot either. I do not suppose any one can now-a-days, although I sometimes come across one that has a faint, far-away hint of the old flavor.

We were young then, and the bloom was on the pie,—the bloom of a childish hunger, developed by romps in the haymow, the orchard or the corn-field,—and our paths were lined with pumpkin pies and peace. I like to fancy that some day I shall get just the right mixture of ingredients, and that the elixir will come out as good as it used to be when I was a child, but until I succeed I shall have no hope of living forever.

1886

This has got to be the last pumpkin pie post!

"The Summum Bonum of Piedom"

I thought I was done with pies but this is a good article from 1899 in Table Talk which gives names and recipes from well known chefs in New York City at the turn of the 20th century!


Restaurants and cafés in New York were then as now, competitive and ego driven establishments.
Their recipes and tips are worth taking a look at.





The Pumpkin Pie

Each year the newspapers for the corresponding month of the previous year are gone over and put to various uses, but from one of the St. Louis Globe-Democrats have been rescued the following interesting recipes for this delectable dish:

At the Fifth Avenue Hotel the culinary lord is Charles Prestinari. Here is his own formula for the pumpkin pie for which that house is noted: One quart of pumpkin, four eggs, one gill of molasses, four ounces of sugar, two ounces of butter, two teaspoonfuls of ginger, one teaspoonful of cinnamon, one-half teaspoonful of nutmeg, one-half teaspoonful of salt.

This makes a rich, full-flavored. heavy bodied pie. With a piece of good English or American cheese it is a perfect meal by itself.

Downtown, under the chimes of Trinity, is the Cafe Savarin. The destinies of the kitchen are managed by a delightful Frenchman, Edward Lapertuque. With all the nobleness of a high-minded chef, he gives in explicit terms his method of making pumpkin pies.

“Cut two pounds of good pumpkin in slices; suppress the seeds and peel; put into a saucepan with some water over a brisk fire. Drain and press the pulp through a sieve. Mix with eight eggs, little ginger, little cinnamon, nutmeg, two ounces of melted butter and one quart of milk. Stir well. Have your pie plate lined the same as for other pies—fill with your preparation and bake in oven about forty minutes."    If the directions are followed the result is a pie as light and beautiful as a custard, with a warm tropical flavor and bouquet.

Simplest of all is the recipe of “ Oscar," the inimitable major-domo of the Waldorf Astoria. He tried many formulas, but found that the one which gave the deepest satisfaction was one in which the delicate flavor of the vegetable was not completely buried beneath the spices. His advice is:  “ Boil and strain the pumpkins, allowing for three pints, two tablespoonfuls of flour, four eggs, one pound of sugar, one tablespoonful of ground ginger, one teaspoonful of salt, and two quarts of milk. Mix all well together while the pumpkin is hot.  Butter a pie dish, line it with a thin layer of short paste, put the mixture into it and bake in a moderate oven for a little less than one hour. Serve the pie while hot."

This makes a pie almost as light as charlotte russe and so palatable as to make the eater follow the example of Oliver Twist and ask for more. It is the summum bonum of piedom.

Philippe G. Goetz is the distinguished chef at Sherry’s. His pies are naturally chefs d'oeurres, and among them the pumpkin holds the front rank. In his own handwriting he tells the world the secret of his success.

“Cook some nice pumpkins and drain them on a sieve. When all the water is gone, press them through a fine sieve, which will leave you a fine pulp. Take one-half pound of sugar, four yolks of eggs, four whole ones, a little nutmeg and mace, two tablespoonfuls of molasses, one quart of cream and one and a half pints of the pulp. Mix all together and fill the pies. This will make two good-sized pies.”

This comes quite close to the old-fashioned recipes, and will produce a smooth velvet-cream of rare delicacy and refreshing power.

The pumpkin pie deserves its immortality. Nor should it be forgotten that the original pumpkin pie was an aristocrat. Like other pies, it contained butter and brown sugar or molasses. But, unlike them, it contained eggs, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, allspice and ginger. Steam has made the world very small, and cheap freights have enabled the poorest to enjoy the fragrant spices of the far East. But it was not so 200 years ago. A single nutmeg cost a shilling or a bushel of wheat, and the cinnamon, ginger and allspice used in one baking cost even more. A pumpkin pie as late as 1690 was more of a luxury than is stewed terrapin or canvasback duck today.

No viand has a clearer or purer lineage. The bag-pudding of the seventeenth century is as obsolete as the dainties of the Pharoahs. The “goodly bear’s-meate pastie” is as extinct as the dodo or the eohippus. Even old-fashioned home-made bread has been driven to the wall by the products of Parisian and Viennese bakeries, by Parker House rolls and the uncanny creations of Graham, Kellogg and other diet reformers and deformers. But the pumpkin pie of 1898, whether made in the Waldorf Astoria or the little dutch bakery around the corner, is practically the same as that which tickled the palate of Cotton Mather or of Bishop Berkeley.

The first in point of time is an heirloom of the Adams family and dates from the early part of the eighteenth century. It is eloquent to one who can read between the lines and tells of a generous and well fed race, one which was bound to produce jurists, Scholars, orators and Presidents. From the pies made pursuant to its provisions sprang John Adams and John Quincy Adams, two of the noble names in American annals. Here is the recipe: One cupful pumpkin boiled down quite thick, one-half cup muscovado, one egg, one piece of butter as big as an egg, one cupful of cream and milk, a little salt, a little cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, allspice and ginger. Bake in a quick oven thirty minutes.

The Alden family has an ancient recipe, for which extreme antiquity is claimed by such members of the family as belong to the Mayflower Society. Some go as far as to declare that it was this formula which enabled the fair Priscilla to charm Miles Standish and John Alden. It runs as follows: One pint pumpkin, one egg, one gill molasses, quarter pound muscovado, one piece of butter big as an egg, one gill of milk, salt, a little cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger; bake forty minutes.

The Wilsons, of Hartford, Conn, can trace their recipe back to 1810.  It shows a slight progress over the two more ancient ones, but not enough to justify comment. It reads: One large cupful of boiled pumpkin, one tablespoonful of flour stirred up in half a cupful of milk, one egg, one piece of butter large as a walnut, half a cupful of yellow sugar, half a teaspoonful of salt, a little nutmeg, clove, cinnamon and ginger; bake forty minutes.

It will be seen that in one hundred years no radical change had occurred. Undoubtedly many experiments had been tried, and many variations tested. but all had been found wanting. Out of these attempts undoubtedly sprang- the squash pie and the sweet potato pie. Both of these are good dishes; they are also slightly filling; but to compare them with pumpkin pie, golden, brown-barred, aromatic and soul satisfying, is simply sacrilege.

In the present century the change has been less than in the last. There has been an improvement in the undercrust or lining. Flour is better and more wholesome to-day than ever before, and the making of piecrust and pastry has been developed into both a science and an art. Though the lining has changed for the better, the filling is the same glorious golden paste delicately browned on the surface as it was in the days of George Washington.

___________________________

1893 -Appletons' General Guide to the United States and Canada: With Special Itineraries, Table of Railway and Steamboat Fares, and an Appendix Describing the Columbian Exposition

Restaurants:  

Delmonico's (cor. 5th Ave, and 26th St.),  

the Holland House Café (Fifth Ave. and 30th St.),  

the Café Brunswick (also at the cor. of 5th Ave. and 26th St.),  

and Sherry's (cor,  5th Ave. and 37th St.), are among the best. 

The St. Denis (cor. Broadway and 11th St.),  Clarke (22 W. 23d St.),  

Purssell's (914 Broadway), and 

the Vienna Bakery (cor. Broadway and 10th St.). are of excellent repute, and places where ladies or families may lunch or dine. 

The café and restaurants attached to the large hotels on the European plan are generally well kept; among the best of these are the Hoffman House, cor. Broadway and 24th St.; 

the St. James, cor. Broadway and 20th St.; 

the Coleman House, Broadway, between 26th and 27h Sts.; 

and the Clifton, 8th Ave. and 35th St.; 

Delmonico's, 22 Broad St. atid at junction of Beaver and William Sts.;

Cable's, 130 Broadway;

the Hoffmann House Cafe, in the Consolidated Stock and Petroleum Exchange, 7 Beaver and 23 New Sts.; 

Sutherland's, 64 Liberty St.; 

the Cafe Savarin, in the Equitable Building, 120 Broadway; 

the Aster House, in Broadway, are first-class restaurants. 

There are a number of restaurants where table-d'hote dinners may be got from 5 to 8 PM., for from 75c. to $1.50, usually including wine;  of these may be mentioned 

the Brunswick, cor. 5th Ave. arid 2<ith St.; 

trie Murray Hill, cor. Park Ave. and 40th St. ; 

ami Morello's 4 W. 29th St. ;

Ricadonna's (42 Union Square) 

and Moretti's (22 E. 21st St.) have the Italian cuisine, on the table-d'hote plan. 

There are also English chop-houses; of these, 

Farrish's (64 John St.), 

Browne's (31 W. 27th St.), and 

The Studio (332 6th Ave.), are noted.

1895 - Pease's Singing Book: Music for Pumpkin Pie

I figured singing turkey's were as close as I would come to singing pumpkin pies...besides, they are funny!

Pease's singing book: for the use of high schools and singing classes -1895

1850 - The Great Peabody Pumpkin

Chanticleer: A Thanksgiving Story of the Peabody Family 

At this crisis of triumphant explanation, Mopsey, who had under one pretext and another,  evaded the bringing in of the pie to the last moment, appeared at the kitchen-door bearing  before her, with that air of extraordinary importance peculiar to her countenance on eventful occasions, a huge brown dish with which she advanced to the head of the table, and with an  emphatic bump, answering to the pithy speeches of warriors and statesmen at critical moments,  deposited the great Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.  Looking proudly around, she simply said, "There!" It was the blossom and crown of Mopsey's life, the setting down and full delivery  to the family of that, the greatest pumpkin-pie ever baked in that house from the  greatest pumpkin ever reared among the Peabodys in all her long backward recollection  of past Thanksgivings, and her manner of setting it down, was, in its most defiant form,  a clincher and a challenge to all makers and bakers of pumpkin-pies, to all cutters and carvers,  to all diners and eaters, to all friends and enemies of pumpkin-pie, in the thirty or forty  United States. The Brundages too, might come and look at it if they had a mind to! The Peabody family, familiar with the pie from earliest infancy, were struck dumb,  and sat silent for the space of a minute, contemplating its vastness and beauty.  Old Sylvester even, with his hundred years of pumpkin-pie experience, was staggered,  and little Sam jumped up and clapped his hands in his old grandfather's arms, and  struggled to stretch himself across as if he would appropriate it, by actual possession,  to himself. The joy of the Peabodys was complete, for the lost grandson had returned,  and the Thanksgiving-pie was a glorious one, and if it was the largest share that was  allotted to the returned Elbridge, will any one complain ?  I have to admit this illustration looks more like a pumpkin pizza! Note: Brundage was a neighbor, with whom the family had a friendly competition when growing  pumpkins.  Eldridge was an unfairly judged cousin who left home to track down the one person  who could prove him blameless...he had to travel to the gold fields of the west to find him and  bring him back to speak the truth for all to hear. I love the phrase " a clincher and a challenge to all makers and bakers of pumpkin-pies". Chanticleer: A Thanksgiving Story of the Peabody Family - 1850

On Receipt of a Pumpkin Pie

In 1898 an educational publication  suggested this poem as a good piece for a Thanksgiving program in  school.  Written around 1850 and showing the American affection for this noble gourd, this poem is a love poem to the pumpkin.

THE PUMPKIN

J. G. WHITTIER

(On receipt of a pumpkin pie.)

Ah! on Thanksgiving Day when from east and from west,

From north and from south come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,—

What moistens the lip and brightens the eye,

What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling;

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within;

When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune

Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon—

Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam,

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team. 

Then thanks for thy present; none sweeter or better 

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter. 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than thine. 
And the prayer which my mouth is too full to express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet and its last sunset sky 
Golden tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin pie!

1895 - Pumpkin Pies Done Right - Recipes and Tips

Two facts in this piece spark my interest.  First, the tip to use the pumpkin liquor to make bread. The second, that it was the fashion of 1895 to have shallow pies...like a thin tart perhaps...rather than, for example, the tall bountiful wedges the apple pie currently appears in when well done.

Wayne Thibaud knows pies!

Pumpkin Pies Done Right

"The best pumpkin is the old-fashioned Connecticut field, with its orange golden rind. There are many varieties that cook quicker than this, but none that have the honeyed sweetness which, with slow, continuous cooking, is found in this one. Do not peel it. Cut it up and scrape out the seeds and soft interior. Put it in a large porcelain-lined preserve kettle and pour a pint of boiling water on it. Cover it closely, and let stand where it will slowly steam until its juices are drawn out. Then cook it rather faster, until the juices have been absorbed and it is almost dry. It should cook about eight or nine hours.  Rub it through a coarse sieve, and leave it to drain in a finer sieve over night. 

Use the pumpkin liquor to make brown bread.   (Comment: This is an great idea!!!)

In the morning take a quart of milk to four cups of the strained and drained pumpkin. Add one large teaspoonful of salt, one large tablespoonful of ginger, one of mace, half a nutmeg grated, four eggs, and a cupful and a half of sugar, and mix well. 

Bake this custard in deep pie tins. Make some of the the pies at least in square tins, to provide the delightful corner pieces which are sure to be in demand. A custard of pumpkin should be made at least an inch thick. 

Make mince, apple, and any other pies as thin as the canons of fashionable taste demand, but do not attempt to make a pumpkin pie unless it is generous in size and ample in depth. Such pumpkin pies as these our grandmothers made before the pretentious and insipid squash usurped the place of the golden-fruited vine of the American cornfield."  —New York Tribune 1895

1675 - Pompion Pye, and 1877 - A Pumpkin Pie Fiasco

Hannah Woolley's recipe, 1675...

Pompion-Pye

Take a pound of Pompion, and slice it; an handful of Time, a little Rosemary, sweet Marjoram stripped off the stalks, chop them small; then take Cinamon, Nutmeg, Pepper, and | | 146a few Cloves, all beaten; also ten Eggs, and beat them all together, with as much Sugar as you shall think sufficient; then fry them like a Froise; and being fried, let them stand till they are cold; Then fill your Pye after this manner: Take Apples sliced thin round-wise, and lay a layer of the Froise, and another of the Apples, with Currans betwixt the layers; be sure you put in good store of sweet Butter before you close it. When the Pye is baked, take six yolks of Eggs, some White-wine or Verjuice, and make a Caudle thereof, but not too thick; cut up the lid and put it in, and stire them well together whilst the Eggs and Pompions are not perceived, and so serve it up.    (Hmm...what did she say at the end there?  Wikipedia to the rescue..."A caudle is a British thickened and sweetened alcoholic hot drink, somewhat like eggnog.")

Below is an English look at the pumpkin pie in the 19th century... Mosaic Gleanings: A Souvenir for 1877 - Mrs R. Frazier This brings to my mind a circumstance in my own experience, which not inaptly illustrates the importance of attending to minutiae. In the days of my boyhood, my father's family was frequently visited by a gentleman who for several years had resided in the United States. His conversation was much relished by our family, and more especially by the younger branches. He was a kind of Peter Parley in the social circle, and we always hailed his approach as affording a promise of an interesting and instructive visit.  I can see, in my mind's eye, myself and my brother sitting in our little chairs at his feet, and drinking in with delight his graphic description of matters and things which had come under his notice while in foreign lands. I am not sure but that this gentleman first fired my young bosom with the spirit of adventure, and led me at an early age to roam the world. Be this as it may, I was completely captivated with his conversation, nor was it less relished by the elder branches of the family; for he was well-informed, happy in description, and could embellish the most barren subject by a pleasing method of narration. In the course of one of his visits he had mentioned with approbation having eaten pumpkin pies in America. This annunciation produced among the female portion of his audience the most evident marks of surprise. What! make a pie out of a pumpkin? They would as soon have thought of making one from a turnip. The conclusion was hastily adopted in their minds that he must be in jest. On the assurance, however, that it was a sober fact, the next conclusion was not less hasty: that those who could relish such a dish must possess a barbarous taste. Our friend left us, but not before he had appointed a time when he would spend aday at our house. As he resided some miles from my father's, he was in the habit of setting the time for his visits. The story of the pumpkin pie seemed to make a strong impression on my good mother, and weighed heavily on her spirits. It was such an anomaly in the history of pies, such a startling exception to the best established rules of pastry economy, that she could scarcely credit the story, much less acquiesce in the judgment and taste of the narrator in pronouncing it excellent. The result of her meditations was a resolution to test the truth by actual experiment; and that the advocate of pumpkin pies might be triumphant or confounded, she determined that the pie should make its appearance on the table, on the very day when he next visited us.  I have never seen the pumpkin cultivated in England as an article of food, either for men or cattle. In France, I have seen it frequently in the market; and it is used by the poorer inhabitants in their vegetable soups. There was, however, a gardener in the vicinity of my father's who raised a few, but I know not what use he made of them. To him application was made, and for a shilling, a fine and rich pompion (for so the word is spelt and pronounced in England) was procured. The pumpkin was brought home and deposited in the pantry, to await the day of trial, no doubt greatly to the astonishment of the cook, who was at a loss to imagine to what culinary purpose it could be put.  As my brother and myself were in the secret, we awaited with no small degree of impatience the appointed day, big with the fate of pumpkin pies. I cannot suppose that the wheels of time moved more slowly than usual in bringing the desired hour, but they appeared to do so, and that to us was the same thing. The tardiness of time is in this respect like a fit of hypochondria; imagination becomes a reality to the sufferer, and fills him with all the pains and inconvenience that the actual disease would produce. There was no small stir in the kitchen department on the day when the expected guest was to make his appearance. The pumpkin was brought out and placed, like a subject for dissection, on the table. A deep dish was brought, a rich crust of paste lined it, and the knife was raised to slay the pumpkin. I have no doubt that my mother trembled, and that the servants, who were spectators of the unheard-of deed, were filled with dismay atthe awful experiment. The unhappy pumpkin was, however, soon divided, and subdivided, cut up in its natural state, in pieces about as large as it is customary to cut the fruit in making an apple pie; next, it was placed in the dish appointed for its reception, being well sugared and spiced; next, it was surmounted with a coverlid of paste, and finally consigned to the oven.  At the usual hour our old friend made his appearance, and one or two more were invited to partake of the feast. The dinner passed off much in the usual manner, except a gentle hint, which my good mother could not repress, that there was a favorite and delicate dish in store, and that it would be well to " keep a corner" for that. On clearing away the meat, sure as fate, the pie made its appearance, large, deep, and smoking hot. It was suggested that the dish was of foreign parentage, and a hope was expressed that due honor might be done to the stranger. My good mother dealt it out to the expectant guests in no stinted measure, and requested them, if not sufficiently sweet, " to sugar for themselves."  Alas, the want of sweetness was its least failing! My brother and myself narrowly watched the countenances of the guests, with that unerring knowledge of physiognomy which even children possess. Our observations were anything but favorable, and the promise they afforded of pleasure in partaking of the delicacy, far from flattering. A wry face and a crash between the teeth proclaimed the presence of the pumpkin, but it did not argue that it was a dainty morsel by any means. An unwillingness to discredit the cookery, and a feeling of courtesy, obtained for the raw subject a reception which he would not have otherwise enjoyed.  My parents, who, of course, by the established laws of etiquette were the last to partake, felt unquestionably somewhat mortified at the feeble encomiums which were passed on the occasion. One, wishing to disguise his abhorrence of the raw material he was champing, modestly remarked that " he thought the fruit a little too crisp." Another had no question of its goodness, but he never was partial to fruit pie. A third more bluntly and honestly said that it was not quite baked enough. But now the time had arrived for my mother herself to test her own experiment, and I shall not soon forget the look of utter dismay she gave on tasting the pie. On the very first mouthful, the very first crack at the vegetable, the whole concern exploded. It was pronounced horrible, detestable, unfit for any one but a savage or barbarian.  All eyes were now turned to our " traveled friend," on the strength of whose description the pie had been made. His face was red, tears starting in his eyes, his hands on his sides, and he was choking, not with pumpkin, but laughter. I do not know but that my mother gave him a worse look than she did the pie when she first stuck her teeth in its uncooked contents. But the joke was too good to yield to a dozen such looks, and it was not till his laughter had found a vent that an explanation took place. My mother accused him of having trifled, in his declaration that the Americans ate pumpkin pies, and that they were good. He as stoutly maintained that such was the sober fact. This led to the inquiry how they were made, and the mystery was at once revealed. My good mother had got everything that was good of its kind into the pie, but unfortunately she had forgotten—to stew the pumpkin! ----------- NOTE: I don't know why, by 1877,  this woman did not know about pumpkin pies!!  I'm sure I have read of them in English this and thats. Later: Wikipedia says: In the 19th century, the English pumpkin pie was prepared by stuffing the pumpkin with apples, spices, and sugar and then baking it whole.[4][5] ---