Donna Andrews

I've just made THE pumpkin pie

The one true pumpkin pie that our family insists on having for Christmas and Thanksgiving. We didn't invent it, but we've been making variations on this pie for thirty years.  (And yes, the photo at right is the actual pie now cooling in my refrigerator.)

Here's the recipe, as presented in Death Dines In, edited by Claudia Bishop and Dean James (Berkley, 2002).  In my story in this anthology, Meg takes THE pie to a cousin's birthday dinner, and. . . well, our assignment for the book was to feature a meal, a murder, and a recipe:

Mother's Sinfully Rich Pumpkin Mousse Pie

Like Meg's mother, my mom found this recipe in the sNewport News Daily Press about thirty years ago.  It's much more work than the average pumpkin pie, but the Langslow and Andrews families think it's worth the trouble.

1 9-inch pie shell, cooled 
(Mother will forgive you if you buy a precooked one.  Or if you don't tell her, she'll never guess.)

1 envelope unflavored gelatin
½ C praline liqueur or Amaretto
1 16 ounce can of pumpkin
4 egg yolks, lightly beaten
½ C packed brown sugar
½ C granulated sugar
¼ C butter or margarine, melted
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
4 egg whites
1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
¾ C whipped cream.  Yes, real cream.

Soften gelatin in liqueur, set aside.
Heat pumpkin and all ingredients through cloves in a saucepan over medium heat.
Stir constantly until lightly boiling and slightly thickened.
Remove from heat.
Beat in gelatin mixture.
Cool, but do not allow to harden completely.
Beat the egg whites, cream of tartar and a pinch of salt until stiff peaks form.
Fold egg whites and whipped cream into pumpkin mixture.
Pour into pie shells, mounding in center.
(You may have to pour part in, let it harden a bit, and then fill the rest.  It makes a very full pie.)
Garnish with more whipped cream.

Halloween with munchkins

Last Halloween I attended the Trick or Treat bash at the Mystery Lovers Bookshop.  (It's a great event, and if you're anywhere near Pittsburgh, I highly recommend it.) This year, though, I'm staying home to help my five-year-old twin nephews enjoy the holiday.

The nephews have been watching the Star Wars movies lately, and this had a profound effect on their choice of costumes.

"I'm going to be Dark Vader for Halloween," the elder twin told me proudly.  "See!  This is my life saver!"

He was waving a telescoping plastic light saber with such enthusiasm that it was a good thing we were outdoors.  When I corrected him--Darth Vader and light saber--he ignored me.

His brother announced that he was going to be Yoga.

"Yoda," I said, automatically.

"Noooo," he said, his tone conveying his utter impatience with silly grownups who know nothing about Star Wars.  "YOGA."

They're also very keen on Halloween decorating. 

"Why don't you look through your decorations," Yoga told me very seriously.  "And put up the ones you like, and you can bring us the ones you don't like."

I promised I would do so. They were absolutely charmed with the couple of strings of pumpkin shaped lights I brought over, not to mention the bat that's now hanging from a tree in their front lawn.

We also got into a bit of Halloween trouble in the grocery store.  We saw some chocolate eyeballs.  They're not that gross, really--peanut butter- or caramel filled balls wrapped in foil printed with an eyeball design.  Dark Vader was charmed.

"Daddy!" he called.  "Can I have some chocolate eyeballs?"

Daddy murmured something. Probably "maybe later," which any self-respecting child has long ago figured out means, "hell, no!" 

Vader continued begging for chocolate eyeballs at intervals. It wouldn't have been so bad if he were using what parents call his "indoor voice," but Vader has no indoor voice.  We're thinking he has a great career ahead of him in the theater.  Or maybe opera.  Without any lessons, he has already learned to project his voice so anyone within a couple of blocks can hear him.  By the time we left the grocery store, he had changed his plea to "Can I have some eyeballs to eat?"

You get a lot of room on the sidewalk when you're traveling with a small child who's begging for body parts.

So I bought some chocolate eyeballs.  They're all ready in my candy dish, waiting.  I can imagine Monday morning when Vader and Yoga tell their friends all about their Halloween.

"Auntie Donna gave us EYEBALLS!"

Yes, I've been pretty invisible lately

Find out why at the Femmes Fatales blog.

The view from my window

The vertical line is the tire tracks made by more venturesome neighbors.  On my street, we don't usually see snowplows much.

Apologies, would-be Facebook friends

Shortly after 2 p.m. today, a friend sent me an invitation to Facebook.  I don't presently have a Facebook page.  I haven't yet had the time to figure out what, if anything, I need Facebook for. So I did the same thing I've done with previous Facebook invitations: filed it in a folder so if I ever do get a Facebook page, I can befriend these folks immediately.

But before I even read the invitation--it came in while I was out at a library event, and then dinner--I got eleven notifications that other folks had added me as a friend on Facebook.  Neat trick, since I'm still not on Facebook.  I checked with a few of the friends, and found out that they got an email saying that the original friend "recently became friends with Donna Andrews and thinks you may know Donna too."

Recently became friends? Hell, we've been friends for years.  Just not on Facebook.

So apologies, would-be Facebook friends. I'm not spurning your invitation to exchange public declarations of friendship.  I'm not ignoring you.  We're still friends, I hope, and can have a drink together at the next mystery convention.

But for now, your kindness in adding me to your roster of Facebook friends will, alas, remain unrequited. Because on top of not really knowing what Facebook could do for me, I'm also feeling a little peeved that Facebook may be using what I consider deceptive practices in its attempt to increase membership.

No offense to anyone who loves Facebook. Your mileage may vary.  And I'm not saying I'll never join. Just that now it's going to be a little harder to convince me that it's worthwhile.

Serendipity

Over at my other blog hangout, the Femmes Fatales, Shirley Damsgaard is blogging about serendipity.  Enjoy!

Translating myself

Sauvcaste thgh on'crest.

Late last night, while poring over my manuscript, I scribbled that in the margin at the beginning of chapter 23.   Or something resembling that.  I have no idea what it means.  Something important enough to scribble a note last night, but this morning?  I can't even decipher it.  I don't even know whether I was trying to correct some mistake or add something new.

I hate it when this happens.  Off to reread the passage a few times to see if inspiration will strike twice.

Crab wine from Dublin

I spent a very satisfactory New Year's Eve, with one tiny exception.

Started well.  I got a bunch of useful errands out of the way, then picked up Mom and we met my brother, sister-in-law,  and nephews for an early (3 p.m.) dinner at a nearby seafood restaurant.  (No, I still don't like seafood except for fish and chips, which is what I had, but the nephews love it.)  Then I came home and sat down to watch the movie I'd been in the mood to see--The Fellowship of the Ring, extended version.  Only got halfway through before pausing to join some friends in an online chat to see the new year in, and from there to bed.  But. . .

I was watching LOTR and got to That Scene.  It's during the first part of the journey, the long slow trek toward Caradhras.  They're camped, or at least stopped. Boromir is giving a sword lesson to Merry and Pippin.  Suddenly they spot something.  Just a cloud.  No, you can tell from the stern look on Gandalf''s face--not to mention the sudden ominous note in the soundtrack--that what approaches is no mere cumulo-cirrus.  Everyone peers into the distance, and then the keen-eyed Legolas shouts:

"Crab wine from Dublin!"

And everyone scatters for cover.  I would too, if I thought someone was going to make me drink the stuff.

Okay, I know Legolas didn't actually say "crab wine from Dublin." But I must have watched that scene a dozen times, and every time I try to figure out what he said, and every time I fail miserably. 

If anyone knows what Legolas is actually saying, please tell me.

And in any case, happy new year to all. 

Actual quote from a TV ad

Okay, the ad was from an ambulance-chasing law firm but still:

"If you or a loved one have been seriously injured or killed in an ATV accident . . ."

Methinks if you have been killed in an ATV accident, you're unlikely to be hearing their ad.  Though I do have a vision of what could happen if a vampire walked into their offices seeking retribution for the ATV accident that propelled him into the ranks of the undead.

The Pie

I called Mom and told her I was making the pie for Thanksgiving.

"The Pie?" she asked.

"Of course," I replied.

The recipe follows.

Mother's Sinfully Rich Pumpkin Mousse Pie

Like Meg's mother, my mom found this recipe in the Newport News Daily Press about thirty years ago.  It's much more work than the average pumpkin pie, but the Langslow and Andrews families think it's worth the trouble.

1 9-inch pie shell, cooled 
(Mother will forgive you if you buy a precooked one.  Or if you don't tell her, she'll never guess.)

1 envelope unflavored gelatin
½ C praline liqueur or Amaretto
1 16 ounce can of pumpkin
4 egg yolks, lightly beaten
½ C packed brown sugar
½ C granulated sugar
¼ C butter or margarine, melted
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
4 egg whites
1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar
¾ C whipped cream.  Yes, real cream.

Soften gelatin in liqueur, set aside.
Heat pumpkin and all ingredients through cloves in a saucepan over medium heat.
Stir constantly until lightly boiling and slightly thickened.
Remove from heat.
Beat in gelatin mixture.
Cool, but do not allow to harden completely.
Beat the egg whites, cream of tartar and a pinch of salt until stiff peaks form.
Fold egg whites and whipped cream into pumpkin mixture.
Pour into pie shells, mounding in center.
(You may have to pour part in, let it harden a bit, and then fill the rest.  It makes a very full pie.)
Garnish with more whipped cream.