Suffering from Jewish Hostess syndrome

Saturday night right after Shabbat ended I made two pies. Both were pumpkin pies. Because I don't want to kill my nut-allergic son, I made a plain pumpkin pie.

That pie is now cut up and in our freezer.

My son in law's late mother used to bake pumpkin pie topped with lots of pecans. Her family called it a pecan pumpkin pie. My son in laws' mother is no longer alive but perhaps eating something that reminds him of home will be a comfort to him. besides, pecans make pumpkin pie extra delicious.

As I laid out all of the pecans I kept thinking about S, one of our virtual guests who is a really spectacular baker. I kept thinking that she would have figured out a prettier way to arrange all of the pecans.

Both pies are now all cut up and wrapped and in our freezer.

Each year as I make pumpkin pie I think about my late inlaws. Every year before Thanksgiving they would declare "We don't like pumpkin. We don't like pumpkin pie." Every year they would take a slice of pumpkin pie and say " I usually don't like pumpkin pie, but I like THIS pumpkin pie." A badly made pumpkin pie can taste like sweetened sweat socks. My pumpkin pies and certainly my sister's (she often joined our in-person Thanksgivings when my in-laws were alive) never taste like sweaty socks.

My memory of my in law's fears of pumpkin pie is always part of my internal dialog during Thanksgiving cooking.

Yesterday a big box arrived from Riverdale Kosher with the turkey and other elements of the meal ready to cook. As I pulled the turkey breasts out of the box I panicked. How could such a small amount of meat possibly feed ten people?

This worry did invade my dreams last night.

Today I got ready to cook. This is more than twelve pounds of turkey breast.

My emotions flip between normal hostess and Jewish hostess. It's enough! It isn't enough! It's enough! It isn't enough!

I put the turkey breasts in the oven. Maybe it is enough meat. But just in case...

I put two big broilers in the oven. They are flavored with etrog jam and mustard. My fevered mind is at last at rest.

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