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Wednesday, January 4, 2012

The Death of Pumpkin Pie

January 3, 2012, a cold, bitter, freezing day.  I walk across Central Park, from West to East, via the Reservoir.  The immense skyline of Midtown and the Upper Sides comes into view.  This is New York.

Little did I know that the death of something near and dear to me was approaching.

In these passages, these blogs, if you've been reading for a while or care to go back in time and browse, you have/will notice(d) my obsession with pumpkin, often in pie form but also in custard variations.  Throughout October and November, I devoured pumpkin pies and custards, thanking whatever forces in the universe that allowed such delights to occur.

January 3, 2012, a cold, bitter, freezing day, I go on the hunt for pumpkin pie.  According to Serious Eats, the best to be had is at Yura on Madison, a cute little bakery/cafe on the Upper East.  I find said establishment, and it's filled with affluent Upper East Side types, eating their cakes and pies, oblivious to the plights of the common man.  Why not join them, I tell myself!

The pumpkin pie:  Good.  Rich.  A complex, flaky crust.  Is it the best?  No!  It can't be!  Perhaps if it were on a plate (and not in a plastic container), perhaps if it had whipped cream, perhaps if it were Thanksgiving and there was a roaring fire in the background, then perhaps it would be the best?  Perhaps, although I am skeptical.

In the end, I am forced to admit something to myself: perhaps I'm not crazy for pumpkin pie anymore.  Perhaps now that fall is over, and winter is here - as it most indubitably was on that blistery, inhospitable day - perhaps now pumpkin pie has died, only to be resurrected next autumn.

Rest in peace.