If you are wondering how in God’s name you are to make a pie without preformed cylinders of unnaturally orange food product then you need to leave. Just Google search ‘butt’ like you were planning to do anyways and please never make food for anyone—yourself included.
If instead you are dazzled by the prospect of turning a vegetable into pie (or muffins, or bread, or … goodness it all sounds so good I’ve bought five pumpkins and now I need you to enlighten me as to how they become food) then you are ready for Step 1. Buy a pumpkin. You probably have one, but if you’ve stabbed it in the face to make it smile at your neighbors like the creepy gourd that it is then it’s too late. No one wants to eat that. It started rotting the second you cut it open and now it has dirt and candle wax and probably bugs in it. Eww. So go get yourself an unmolested pumpkin. You can draw a face on it of you must, and even name it, but don’t poke any holes in it. Only get a massive pumpkin if you are feeding your family of eighteen, otherwise a little one will do- roughly the size of your head.
Step 2: Hack it up. You are going to take your pumpkin and a very large knife and cut it into bits and pieces. Embrace the spirit of our intolerant, ignorant, and mildly hypocritical forebears by ruthlessly killing that which you don’t understand. Dispose of the guts however you like but don’t let them near the pie. You want some good-sized chunks- as if you were making mashed potatoes out of them (the pumpkin chunks, not our forebears). Throw them all in a big pot and boil them to within an inch of their life, or until soft and stabbable with a fork. Then peel the skin off (this is where the Indian forebears come in) and put your mushy pumpkin chunks straight into a food processor, if you have one, or into a bowl, if you don’t. Either way you want to mash and stir until you get something the consistency of a creamy soup. Now you have your pumpkin muck.
Step 3: Pie filling. This part is super easy. You are literally going to stir all of these things up in a bowl in this order. That’s it. You know, until step 4.
2 eggs, beaten
1 3/4 cups Pumpkin muck
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 2/3 cups evaporated milk
Step 4: Now you have a bowl of orange-ish milk with specks floating on top- perfect! You are going to carefully pour this into a nine-inch pastry shell almost to the tippy top- but not quite. I make my pie crust, but if you’re exhausted after all of this hacking business and generally want to tell me to stuff it at this point then don’t worry about it. I’m not nearly as indignant about the use of inauthentic crust and will not come to your house to malign you verbally with excessive force if you cheat. If I sense an empty pumpkin can, however, I’m going to find you.
Step 5: Bake. You’ll have enough filling to make two pies, so transport these very slowly to your preheated oven which should be a toasty 425 degrees. Try really hard not to spill in the oven because it’ll burn in the bottom and be gross. After fifteen minutes, reduce the heat to 350 degrees and wait another 20 minutes. You should be able to poke it with a knife (I know, more stabbing) and pull it out clean so just leave it in an extra few minutes if there’s still pie goo on it. It’s still going to wobble a little when you take it out, but that’s ok. Your pie will also collapse a little as it cools, but that’s ok too.
You’re done! You have made an exceptionally yummy pie without dishonoring the entire holiday of Thanksgiving and the spirits of all of your ancestors. You can eat it now.