Pumpkin Pie Custard

Thanksgiving week again. The turkey ordered from Yandow farm in Charlotte the same as last year, the eighteen pounds the same price, the donuts in the bag the same offering, the second refrigerator running for the bird. Sarah and Tom and Ben coming up from Portland (Lucy stays in Philadelphia for her first Thanksgiving away — her program does not break long enough for the trip, and she will spend the holiday with her cohort, an arrangement that surprised no one and that she had announced cheerfully back in October). David and Karen and Teddy and Caitlin and Anna and Marcus and James and Sam — the full extended Bergstrom-and-attached crowd, fourteen at the table including the new partners and not counting the dog, the largest Thanksgiving I will have hosted in this house since Helen was alive.

I read Helen's turkey card Wednesday morning. The card has not changed. The note about the giblets is in its place. I checked the cavity twice — once at six in the morning when the bird came out of the brine, once at nine when it went into the oven. The giblets were out both times. The bird went into the oven at nine-thirty. It came out at three. The kitchen smelled of turkey and dressing and gravy and pies for the entire afternoon, and the family arrived in waves through the day — David and Karen mid-morning, Sarah and Tom and Ben at noon, Teddy and Caitlin around two, Anna and Marcus at three, James and Sam a little after three. The house went from quiet to crowded over the course of six hours.

We sat down at four. Fourteen at the table. I had set it the night before — the good plates, the good silver, the cloth napkins, the candles in the holders that Helen's mother had given us as a wedding present in 1980. I gave the briefest possible blessing. The food was passed. The conversation moved across the table the way it always moves at a Thanksgiving table, the small overlapping talk of people who have known each other for decades and people who are new to the gathering and who are trying to find their footing in the established rhythm. Caitlin and Marcus and Sam — the three new partners, all of them at their first or second Bergstrom Thanksgiving — handled themselves well. Sam in particular was a delight, asking the kind of questions about the family history that produced longer answers from David and from me than we had given in years.

After dinner the grandchildren did the dishes — Teddy and Anna and James and Ben, four of them at the sink and counter, with Caitlin and Marcus and Sam pitching in on drying and putting away. The kitchen was full. The hot water was running. The talk was going. I sat in the living room with David and Sarah and Tom and Karen and a cup of coffee, and we listened to the kitchen the way Sarah and I had listened a year ago and the way I had listened with Helen for forty years before that. Sarah said: dad, listen. I said: I am listening. The kitchen sound was the entire Thanksgiving. The food was the means. The sound was the end. After the dishes were done Lucy called from Philadelphia on a video call. We passed the phone around. She saw everyone. Everyone saw her. We told her we missed her. She said she missed us too. The day was complete.

The kitchen smelled of turkey and dressing and gravy and pies for the entire afternoon — and the pies, I will admit, were the part I looked forward to most. Helen always made two: one for the table, one for the day after when the house went quiet again. This year I made her pumpkin pie custard in place of the full pie, spooned into individual ramekins so that each person at the table had their own, which felt right for a year of new partners and first Bergstrom Thanksgivings. It is simpler than a crust, it is just as honest, and when fourteen people are clearing the table and the grandchildren are already at the sink, a custard that needs no slicing is a small and practical kindness.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 50 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 can (15 oz) pure pumpkin puree
3 large eggs
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons brown sugar, packed
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
Whipped cream, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Heat oven and prepare water bath. Preheat oven to 325°F. Set eight 6-ounce ramekins into a large roasting pan. Bring a kettle of water to a boil.
Mix the custard base. In a large bowl, whisk together the pumpkin puree, eggs, heavy cream, and evaporated milk until smooth and fully combined.
Add sugar and spices. Whisk in the granulated sugar, brown sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, and salt until the mixture is uniform and no streaks remain.
Fill the ramekins. Divide the custard evenly among the prepared ramekins, filling each about three-quarters full.
Create the water bath. Carefully pour the boiling water into the roasting pan until it reaches halfway up the sides of the ramekins. This gentle heat ensures a silky, crack-free custard.
Bake. Transfer the pan carefully to the oven and bake for 45 to 50 minutes, until the custards are just set at the edges but still have a slight wobble in the center when nudged.
Cool and chill. Remove the ramekins from the water bath and let them cool on a wire rack for 30 minutes. Cover loosely and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or overnight, until fully set and cold.
Serve. Top each custard with a small spoonful of whipped cream if desired. Serve directly from the ramekin.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pumpkin Pie Custard — The Smell of Pies That Filled the Afternoon