XXX Pumpkin Bread Pudding (definitely better than Jeannette’s Pies)

Growing up, our happily blended family was blessed with a bevy of doting great aunts and grandmothers.  Between us, my brothers and I enjoyed the attentions of 4 grandmothers and 2 maiden aunts, all in their 70s by the time we left elementary school.

Sadly, the only one that could cook a lick among the flock—Grammy Walsh–died young, at 66. The other old ladies had their reasons for not cooking. Granny Hagan (Jeannette) and Gran-Gran Rogers were fortunate to have had domestic staff that cooked for their families, and Aunts Peg and Gladys never had families to cook for.  Aunt Peg could at least season a chicken breast with salt and pepper and put it in the oven, but go to Aunt Gladys’ for dinner and you would likely be served a bowl of Special K floating in cranberry juice.  Real story, bro.

This meant that every holiday all of the meal preparations and hosting duties for the extended family fell to my sweet mother.  The rest of “the oldsters,” as we referred to them, lived into their late 80s and 90s, which meant that the Pegster enjoyed about 30 years of dragging the leaves in and out of the dining room table and preparing holiday feasts for no fewer than a dozen hungry pilgrims.

One Thanksgiving, my Granny Hagan (who had long since lost the cook my Grandfather’s position provided) offered to bring the pies to the holiday feast. My mother consulted Aunt Peg and me. “What should I do? I’m not sure Granny Hagan knows how to bake a pie!”

“Please don’t let her!” I begged. “Dessert is my favorite part of Thanksgiving. She’ll bring something like mincemeat!”

Aunt Peg shook her head. “Oh, lands,” she sighed. “I’ve had Jeannette’s pies.”

In the end, my mother decided it would be insulting not to let Granny Hagan bring her pies to Thanksgiving.  And much to everyone’s surprise, Granny arrived with 2 magazine-worthy pies – a pumpkin and an apple—in actual baking dishes, not Mrs. Smith’s disposable pie tins, garnished with decorative pastrywork.

“Hmm, we’ll see what they taste like,” Aunt Peg whispered to me over whisky sours and shrimp cocktail.

When the main plates were cleared, everyone was served a wedge of the pie of their choice.

“Jeannette, the pie is delicious,” proclaimed my father.  “I do love a good apple pie.”

Aunt Peg gave me the side eye.

“Oh, Jeannette, this crust!” exclaimed Aunt Gladys. “How did you get it so flaky?”

“I’ll never tell,” lilted Granny Hagan, her rouged cheeks and eyes a-twinkle.

Aunt Peg put down her fork.

Peg Laird was one of the most generous souls you could ever meet, but letting my grandmother bask in accolades for pies that she had clearly purchased at the Village Inn and managed to transfer to her own pie plates was a tough nut to swallow.

When it was time to clear the plates, Aunt Peg wedged herself between my mother and me at the sink.

“I’ve HAD Jeannette’s pies!”  she spat.  “Those were NOT Jeannette’s pies.”

But in the end, she allowed my grandmother to enjoy, probably for the only time in her 80+ years on the planet, compliments on her “cooking.”

The moral of this story?  Pies are hard.  Make this pumpkin bread pudding instead.  It is out-of-this-world, and I mean X-rated good, and if I didn’t serve this each and every Thanksgiving, my family would disown me.  In fact, the day before Thanksgiving each year, I get at least one text from a niece or daughter who won’t be at our family table, begging for me to text them the recipe.

Aunt Peg died before I started making it, but I know she would agree, it is much, much better than Jeannette’s pies.