When In Need of a Birthday Dessert

We bring the pumpkin back from market. We puree it with the back of a wooden spoon. From the peeling to the bagging, this takes about 3 hours.

We fetch the milk from the lady who has cows. We pasteurize it on our stove. Then we evaporate it down by half. From the teat to the batter, this takes about 3 hours.

We grind our nutmeg and ginger with an iron rod in a hollowed-out log.

The eggs come from local chickens, acquired one by one from the oldest lady in the world and her temperamental hen. With each purchase come three “Italian-style” kisses on each cheek.

We bake it for two hours on the stovetop, in a pan within a pan—if the electricity remains steady.

And that, my friends, is a pumpkin pie made from scratch.

Note: Next month we’ll have an oven and a grocery store full of limitless goods. Naturally, we’re excited. But baking will never again be such an accomplishment, such a sport, such an absolute talented, magical wonder.