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When
I was growing up, I would not eat pumpkin pie. My mother never made it
but they served it at our school cafeteria in New England and the
orange filling looked a little jelled. It certainly wasn’t as appealing
at the Boston Cream Pie on plates just next to the slices of the pie,
with the glossy chocolate icing and the cool vanilla pastry cream piled
up in the center. It was a no-brainer.
Interestingly, I
don’t think I’ve ever made Boston Cream Pie, perhaps because it’s
something that’s so mythic to me, and I hold it on such a high
pedestal, that I’m not sure I could make one that meets my own unreasonable
standards. But another, and perhaps a more important reason, is that if
I made it, I would eat the whole thing in one sitting.
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