Pumpkin Spice Moscow Mule

Thanksgiving 2027. Fourth in the house. The numbers: $63 for eighteen people (Dale and Sandra are now permanent fixtures, and Cousin Trey brought his family — four more people, because the Turner family grows the way my tomato plants grow: relentlessly, in all directions). The turkey is spatchcocked, ninth year. The method is no longer a method. It's a religion. I will spatchcock turkeys until I die, and when I die, Harper will spatchcock turkeys because she's watched me do it nine times and has already asked, "Can I take out the backbone next year?" She's five. She wants to handle the kitchen shears. I said, "When you're eight." She said, "That's three years." She said this with the impatience of someone who has been waiting her whole life to operate kitchen shears, which is three years of waiting, which to a five-year-old is an eternity.

The kids' table seated five this year: Brayden (7), Harper (5), Wyatt (3), Colton (3), and Paisley (in a high chair, five months old, gumming a piece of roll). Five Turner-Moreland children at a kids' table, eating Thanksgiving dinner in varying degrees of competence. Brayden ate three plates. Harper ate precisely one plate, arranged by food group. Wyatt ate sweet potato and nothing else (he's loyal to sweet potato the way Dustin is loyal to dump cake). Colton threw a roll at Brayden. Paisley drooled on everything.

After dinner, I washed dishes and looked out the kitchen window at the backyard, dark now, the chairs from the overflow seating still scattered across the grass. Eighteen people ate in my house today. Eighteen. The girl from the FEMA trailer, from the apartment with the two-foot counter, from the kitchen that smelled like survival — that girl fed eighteen people Thanksgiving dinner. The math: $3.50 per person. The feeling: priceless, uncountable, the kind of math that doesn't fit on a receipt.

After the dishes were done and the backyard chairs were still scattered across the dark grass, someone pressed one of these into my hand — cold copper, fizzy, smelling like everything fall is supposed to smell like — and I just stood there at the kitchen window for a minute, eighteen people worth of grateful settling into my chest. If you’re hosting a crowd this Thanksgiving and you want one thing on the table that feels like a little celebration of how far you’ve come, this is it. Make a big batch, raise a glass, and count your people.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 1

Ingredients

2 oz vodka
1/2 oz pumpkin puree
1/2 oz fresh lime juice (about 1/2 a lime)
1/2 oz simple syrup
1/4 tsp pumpkin pie spice, plus more for garnish
4–5 oz ginger beer, chilled
Ice (crushed preferred)
Lime wheel and cinnamon stick, for garnish

Instructions

Mix the base. In a cocktail shaker, combine the vodka, pumpkin puree, lime juice, simple syrup, and pumpkin pie spice. Add a handful of ice and shake vigorously for about 15 seconds until well chilled and combined.
Fill your mule cup. Fill a copper mug (or a tall glass) generously with crushed ice.
Strain and pour. Strain the shaken mixture over the ice in your mug, leaving room at the top for the ginger beer.
Top with ginger beer. Pour the chilled ginger beer gently over the back of a spoon to preserve the fizz. Give the drink one gentle stir to just barely combine.
Garnish and serve. Add a lime wheel and a cinnamon stick, then dust lightly with a pinch of pumpkin pie spice on top. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pumpkin Spice Moscow Mule — The Drink That Toasted Eighteen People and Counting