pumpkin pie - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Pumpkin pie was a staple of the cooler seasons in that house. From the fall mother bought the smaller, sweeter pumpkins and made the pie from scratch, always using grandmother's recipe. When she could no longer find them the cupboard was never without canned filling; only mother could make it taste almost as good as the freshly made, playing with the spice balance until she had it just right.
The sweet autumnal fragrance that greeted Tom as he opened the door could only mean one thing - pumpkin pie! Either it was almost finished baking in the aga or else it was cooling on the counter. The newspaper beneath his mud-clogged boots crinkled, the freshly fallen rain soaking into the dry pages. His socked feet felt odd on the tile, they always did after so long constrained by laces and leather. The pie was already on the counter, the cinnamon colored filling delicately wrinkled all the way to a golden crust. It was all he could do not to grab a knife and dig in, but if he did that how would he stop himself? In minutes it would be an ex-pumpkin pie.
Sarah's smile fell a little when she saw the pumpkin pie, it just wasn't the same as the ones Gran made. It was smaller, more shallow and without the extra sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar. It wasn't really that though, perhaps if Gran had made this pie she's love it just as much. Where was the love in this supermarket offering? From the corner of her eye she realized Mom was watching, the fake smile she'd been wearing all week quite vanished. Sarah reasserted her own smile, "Fake it till you make it," she thought. Still unmasked, Mom hurried to the kitchen...
Heavy cream spills on the counter, a dusting of cinnamon on the floor and husks of sweet pumpkins in a mixing bowl - somewhere in this kitchen is a pumpkin pie. The air already tastes like dessert, sweet and spicy - cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger. This fragrance, like no other, sets my stomach to rumbling; the gurgles aren't cute background noises, instead they are more like a teenager with a new drum kit, energetic and commanding my attention. I'm so distracted with the hunt I fail to hear Molly, still clad in her apron and a good portion of the ingredients, enter the kitchen. Before I even begin to turn I know her arms are folded and she's wearing that face, the one that's a cross between motherly and pitt-bull.
To the children's aching stomachs the aroma of the pumpkin pie was a sweet siren's song. Was there any choice but to walk toward it, to stop and digest it with the eyes. The pastry was a golden brown, cracked in few places letting the warm filling ooze into the gap until it baked in place. It wasn't for a few moments that they realized not a single one of them had remembered to remove their wintry boots. From the still ajar door to the pie were four sets of muddy tracks...
The great artistry of the pumpkin pie, the perfect symmetry of the crust that lay around the filling like a golden halo, was all that held Dana's knife hovering in the air. In that suspended moment she savoured her creation with her eyes one last time. Soon the slices sat proud on clay plates, the least chipped of the bunch, with a dainty swirl of clotted cream.
Upon the floor sits the remnants of an entire pumpkin pie. Beneath the broken pastry lies Talia's favourite dish, fragments of the yellow glaze peeking through the mess. The filling itself has radiated toward the walls in ragged gloopy arms, leaving a blank spot that could be filled by a pair of fluffy slippers. It's cold to the touch. The oven door yawns open, the splatters fully dried, still pumping heat into the room...
Beneath the glass counter was a slice of pumpkin pie. Jane hardly thought it belonged there, a slice of the country in the city, but she was sure glad to see it. It had to be a good couple of inches deep and the rich cinnamon color was enough to bring the aroma of the woodland into this fashionable delicatessen. Before she was aware of making her choice she was ordering the pie with her latte; she could figure out what to cut from her expenditures after the treat was gone. With every delicate forkful she could hear her mama telling tales of life in the general store, what mischief her brother had gotten himself into and what her father said about some obscure topic. All to soon the plate was crumbs and smears of pumpkin filling; her conjured farmhouse ebbed away. This place with parisian tables and tasteful artwork was not somewhere she could lick the plate, and so with curious mingling of happy and mournful, she took her tray to the counter and turned slowly away.
Graham walked in with a pumpkin pie big enough to sink the Titanic; God only knows how it ever fitted in the oven. Strong though he is, he walks with a quickened pace to the table, arms sagging, face tighter than usual. Then he sets it down on the aged wood, the ceramic dish over all those grooves our pens carved completing more homework than we ever care to recall. Before a slice is carved we are devouring the smell and eating with our eyes. There are so many memories associated with this simple pie and tonight we're going to make some more.
Deb was sitting on the cream couch, eyes unfocused, yet spooning in a slice of pumpkin pie without ever glancing down. When the pie finished her eyes moved as if an invisible switch had been flicked to reconnect them to her brain. She put her plate down down, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail and shot me grin. It was an unconventional breakfast to be sure, but was it really any worse than frosted flakes?
Swirled in the ice-cream was the last slice of pumpkin pie, a desert worth savouring. First the miracle of left over pie had to happen first, the chances of which must be hovering around zero, and then Maggie had to have the genius idea to at mix it into her homemade sundae.
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