Custard Pie

Sorry to disappoint, but this isn't going to be a recipe blog post. 

I cannot believe that Thanksgiving is next week and we have barrelled through another whole calendar year.  It really isn't that I didn't know it was coming, it's that I have been wishing it away.  Begging for time to slow down.  I could feel it coming, felt it in my soul.

Maybe it would surprise you to know that even the most dysfunctional families have traditions.  I'm not even talking about some sick twisted take on some average families' tradition. 

My filthy-mouthed, pornography-loving, run-around-the-house-naked, pee-off-the-front-porch, cigar-smoking grandma was the one who carried out the most traditions in my family.  And, believe it or not, she was most traditional at Thanksgiving.

I must add a disclaimer in here.  The whole thing was still covered with the blanket of dysfunction.

However, it was literally one of the more normal things that would ever happen in my family.  Only now, as an adult, can I pick it apart and see the many layers of dysfunction that were still woven into what looked like a wholesome family tradition.

She made the entire spread herself and would start days in advance.  There were several women in the family besides her.  I had two aunts and, of course, my mom.  What the heck?  Not once do I remember any of them ever lifting a finger to help with anything.   I do remember my parents supplying the ham or turkey because their employers would give them one.  It probably won't be too surprising to learn that my aunts and mom were not only extremely lazy women, they had little to no ability in the kitchen.  Oh yea, and some of them were drunk all the time.  (For any of you who have eaten my cooking, rest assured my skills did not come from this side of the family.)

So, my grandma made it all.  She hand made noodles and they were always bright yellow.  Why?  Because she always added yellow food coloring.  Why?  I don't know!   I wouldn't even know that was wrong or not needed until I tried to make noodles after I was married and my new husband questioned what I was doing. 

She made everything by hand, literally by one hand.  The other hand always had to be free and clean for her smokes.  She was definitely the epitome of the old lady you see on tv smoking over every dish they ever cook or eat.  Eww!!!!!!!  When you grow up with a family of smokers, you don't think much of it.  Now, there's no way I'd purposely eat anything made by someone cooking like that.  No more ash ingestion for me, thank you very much!

Eating her ham and turkey was the reason I never liked ham and always ate dark meat from the turkey until recently.   (I still can't eat ham, but because the preservatives wreak havoc on my body.)  Now, as an adult, I understand that most hams are already smoked and need little cooking or baking to finish them.  Before she would put the ham in the oven to bake for 5 hours, she would cover it in salt.  Ick!!!  Ham does not need to be salted.

I think it is Christmas Vacation that has a scene where they are about to cut into the turkey and it pops open with a cloud of dust.  Well, that might be a little extreme in describing her turkey, but not by much.  A giant, 20+ lb bird would yield about 3 cups of meat or less.  It was so dry, she would serve it with butter.  I wish I were joking.  She would let the bird set in one side of the zink (that's what she called the sink) for a couple days before Thanksgiving.  She would get up at 3 am on Thanksgiving morning and pop the bird in the oven.  She would pull it out at about 1 pm.  No seasoning, no basting.  She baked it for over 9 hours, no wonder it was super dry!  Wow!

She made all the pies too.  She would make lots of pumpkin, which she always over-baked.  It wasn't until I started baking that I realized you could have a fully cooked pumpkin pie without a long crack in the center.  She made chocolate and banana meringue.  I've still got to respect that, they were perfect and something I can't do well.  But my favorite was custard pie. 

Honestly, I've not had any custard pie since the last Thanksgiving my grandma was alive.  It's not a pie that you find very often and I've only seen in one or two grocery stores.  It's the one thing though that always reminds me of the tradition and not the dysfunction.  I'm not sure why, it just does.  The thought of it alone is like the ultimate comfort food. 

Unfortunately with my lazy mom and drunk aunt and aunt that moved away from the dysfunction, all of the tradition died with my grandma.  There's been no Thanksgiving tradition since 1997. 

Don't get me wrong, the holiday was still incredibly difficult despite the meager traditions.  There was never a lack of people fighting in the family.  And, of course, never a lack of traumatic experiences caused by my dad.   But, I miss the tradition.

I often get pushed further into my holiday depression by seeing everyone around me so steeped in their own family traditions.  It isn't that they aren't dysfunctional.  It isn't that I am jealous.  It's that so deep in my heart and soul is buried that longing to belong to a family.  Really, it's my God given desire to stand shoulder to shoulder with loving people while the rest of the world is doing the same thing.   Sadly, it's the foundation that traditions are formed on that my heart so longs for and I realize that I never, ever had.