I’m noticing a distinct pumpkin pie-hating trend coming from the Timberati. First Harry calls it `revolting’, and then Kieran crustily reviews the literature. (Aside: Do we go to Ireland, live there for years, and then make fun of the food?)

My grandmother makes what is without any doubt the very best apple pie in the world. The secret, of course, lies in the apples: Gravensteins, accept no substitute. And though to do so is only just short of familial blasphemy, I must nonetheless proclaim that pumpkin is still my favorite of all the pies. Unlike the brave rallying defenders of the pie over at CT, I will go a step further and argue that, like the recipe for fresh cranberry relish that I thought for years was a family secret but was really from the back of the bag, the best pumpkin pie around is the one that comes from the Libby’s can. It needs no whiskey, no pecans, and no exotic spices (though I will endure in being just a little bit bourgeoisie and insist on not using a jar of “pumpkin pie spice;” cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove will do, thank you), but it does require a home-made crust and careful baking. It should be eaten cold, with real cream, and when inevitably eaten for breakfast the day after, it should be consumed over the sink and directly from the pie-pan.

Update: Brayden is with me on this one. And I’ll point out that pumpkins and turnips are totally in different families.