I'm not really a big pie person, but I love a pumpkin pie. Both of those are probably because pumpkin pies are the only ones I remember my maternal grandmother and mother making. Although, as I type this, I have a vague memory of my grandmother also making apple pies on occasion. I'll have to check with my mom...
My maternal grandmother, Grace, was my buddy. She was beautiful and classy and annoyed her snarkier daughter and granddaughter by often saying, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Maybe it was her attempt to just silence us completely, I don't know.
So I very rarely heard Grace say a negative word. But there were always a couple reserved for her pumpkin pies. They were beautiful and delicious and always wound up looking like this:
And Grace would tsk and cluck and mutter that the pie was ruined and she couldn't believe it split and they never used to split and she didn't know what she could do differently and on and on. And we would tell her that they split every time and they were supposed to and nothing was different and they were beautiful and would be delicious and no one cared.
I miss those pumpkin pies in their 70s' glazed ceramic pie plates...
So how fortunate am I that I awakened this morning to my girlfriend whipping a pumpkin pie together? When it came out of the oven, it looked like this:
That separation is from the Knife Test and not from any splitting. And I thought, "Oh hell, Grace is sputtering right now!" I told my girlfriend about Grace and her pies and was relieved as the pie cooled and eventually split. That's the "After" picture at the top of this post.
See, Grace? They always split. <3