Pumpkin Pie
The road stretched ahead of us, the dark asphalt twisting like a snake through the grass. On each side, craggy chunks of red earth rose to form the vast valley through which we were driving. The sunlight struck the peaks of the rock formations to the left, setting the rocks ablaze with color, almost as if they were on fire. In the distance, an arrowhead shaped mountain jutted from the ground, dark and foreboding, blocking any view beyond. The contrast in colors was brilliant. Reds, browns, creams, and blacks, in countless different shades, combined to create a desert tapestry that was almost surreal. The piercing blue sky served as the blank canvas against which the stunning landscape was displayed. This was the phenomenon we came to see: The Valley of Fire.
Well, it’s one reason anyway. The other was my boyfriend, Lorin’s, attempt to create a magical Thanksgiving experience for me. This was my first major holiday away from home, and I was trying hard to be a good sport, trying not to be homesick, trying to force roots to grow in the sun-bleached desert earth rather than reaching for the damp, black, nutrient-dense soil of Central New York.
During our first year in Nevada, I managed to make it back east for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Cheap flights coupled with a flexible work schedule had made it seem relatively easy. In the year since, I had taken an office job for less pay and zero flexibility, but which offered a reliable paycheck and the opportunity for health benefits after a year of employment. Moving to a larger apartment and getting a dog had meant more bills, and my auditions of late had only occasionally provided lucrative work. The office job scratched my itch for security; for something known; for normalcy; but with it came limitations, and the impact of those limitations was now vividly clear as we entered the holiday season. With the office only closed on the day of the holiday, and any additional time off being unpaid, I could not go home.
It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and my office manager, in her grand benevolence, had let us leave at 3:00. I had raced home and thrown the last of the necessary items in the car, excited at the prospect of setting up camp before dark. We drove from our apartment on the west side of Las Vegas, downtown through the tangled mess of merging highways called the spaghetti bowl, then north on Route 15 past Nellis Air Force base and into a vast stretch of flat beige desert. We listened to the Stone Temple Pilots and chatted as we drove, the traffic thinning as the city shrank from view. Within an hour, we had turned off the highway then followed the road that quickly changed from straight and flat to winding and mountainous.
Lorin turned down the radio as we took in our surroundings.
“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, looking proud and maybe a bit relieved.
He had been in charge of planning the trip. Moving west had been his dream, and I had gone along for the ride, at a loss for how to proceed with my life after graduating college and a disastrously unhappy period of time in Manhattan. While he was excited about creating our own holiday traditions, I was thinking about my 80-year-old grandfather, and how I might not get many more Thanksgivings to spend with him, and how my mother wouldn’t have my help pulling apart the bread for stuffing, or setting the table, or filling the water pitcher; how, out here in the desert, there wouldn’t be classical music playing while the house filled with the tantalizing aroma of roasting turkey, how my harmony in the Doxology would be missing when the family gathered around the table, joining hands to sing our thanks in beautiful chorus.
Most of the time I didn’t mind being away. Our families came to visit. I made the trip home as often as I could. I called my grandfather at least once a week. Plus, we were busy trying to make ends meet and then filling our downtime with adventures: Death Valley, San Diego, Zion National Park, the Grand Canyon… new experiences at every turn, reminiscent of my semester abroad. I knew these moments of discomfort were an opportunity to grow, but growth was proving painful.
We checked in at the welcome center, then wound our way through the park to our assigned campsite. I was disappointed to find that although the majority of the campsites were vacant, the one directly next to ours was inhabited by a large family with several tents. They waved hello as a group of children played on the rocks behind us. I had hoped for seclusion, for privacy, for quiet. I didn’t feel like making small talk or worrying about my voice carrying. I wanted our German Shepherd, Sasha, to be able to roam; but, alas, this was not meant to be. We quickly set up camp as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. We grilled our dinner, sat by the fire, looked up at the stars, then climbed into the tent when the desert night turned frigid.
Woken early by sounds from the campsite next to ours, Thanksgiving morning found us hiking across the incredible sandstone rock formations that stretched as far as the eye could see. We encountered petrified wood from a long-ago forest and 2500-year-old petroglyphs from a long-ago people. As we gained altitude, we left behind the creosote bush, cacti, and brittle brush of the valley and contended only with the various iterations of sandstone. The sun warmed our skin and we shed layers and rested on a smooth, rounded, section of striped rock whose striations remind me of the layers of a cinnamon bun.
I checked my watch. 1:00. Back home, my family would have been about to sit down for dinner. A fresh wave of homesickness washed over me as I nibbled on a granola bar. I missed my family. I missed our traditions. I was sad to be missing the wonderful day that brought us together only once a year.
We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the park and its incredible offerings. We traversed slot canyons, where I saw my first tarantula in the wild. We spotted bighorn sheep far above on a ridge. We passed through eroded arches and climbed into caves, crossing miles of trails but barely grazing the surface of the park’s 40,000 acres.
By the time we returned to the campsite late in the afternoon, we were dusty and tired. Lorin lit the camp stove and started pulling supplies from our cooler. I opened a bottle of beer and lowered myself into my folding camp chair with a groan. Sasha stretched out at my feet, contentedly gnawing on a marrow bone, her Thanksgiving treat.
The family at the campsite next to ours was spread around two picnic tables that had been pulled together. They were jovial, their laughter reverberating off of the surrounding walls of rock. Lorin asked me something about dinner and I snapped at him, resenting being away from my family, resenting the family next to us that was together and noisy and happy on Thanksgiving, resenting my job and my finances and my choice to live so far away from everyone I loved. I even resented the stupid grilled meal that Lorin was preparing. Grilled chicken, rice, some stupid vegetables. My insides longed for green bean casserole. My mouth watered for homemade stuffing, for my mother’s cranberry sauce and red cabbage. My guts craved pie.
Lorin, never one for taking my shit, asked me what my problem was. A tear trickled down my cheek.
“This just isn’t how Thanksgiving is supposed to be.” I hated how I sounded like a petulant child.
“How is it supposed to be?” he asked.
“You know. It’s supposed to be about being with family and following traditions and there are supposed to be dead leaves and bare trees and gray skies. And there’s supposed to be pie.” As my annoyance grows, so does the volume of my voice, echoing off the rocks. I don’t care.
“I thought Thanksgiving was about showing gratitude for the important things. You know- literally giving thanks.”
“It is. It’s just…” I don’t have a good response. I know I’m being unreasonable. “I’m just homesick, is all. I hate missing these times with my family. And I’m really hungry so all I’m thinking about is the food we always have. Plus, the Rockwellian scene over there isn’t helping.” I motion to the family at the campsite, rolling my eyes.
He flipped over the chicken breasts on the grill, then poured marinade over the top of them, making the grill hiss and smoke. He stirred the rice and moved the pot of vegetables off of the flames. He approached me, knelt down and folded me into a hug.
“I’m sorry this is hard for you. I tried to make it a nice holiday.”
I saw the hurt in his eyes; the knowledge that despite his efforts to make this better for me it hadn’t been enough. I am suddenly ashamed of my selfishness.
“You did make it a nice holiday. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”
As he finished preparing our meal, I thought about the day; the glorious splendor of our surroundings, the much-needed break from the city, from my job, from the pressure. I thought about how we had spent the hours breathing in fresh air and soaking up the rays of sunshine, of challenging our muscles and encountering wildlife. I thought of how I’d had a lifetime of Thanksgivings but never one like this; that this one would always stand out because it was different from the rest. It was special.
Lorin handed me a plate of food and I dug in, relishing its warmth as the retreating sun left a chill in the air. We clinked our bottles of beer together in a toast. My whole mood had changed, like a switch had been flipped. We looked up at the vast desert sky, the stars so numerous and bright we didn’t need our lanterns. I scratched Sasha behind the ears and thought of all of the things I was grateful for, but two things in particular: First, I realized that having a family that I longed for was a wonderful gift, meaning that I had a family whom I loved and enjoyed spending time with. Many aren’t so lucky. Second, I was grateful that if I had to be away from them, I had someone in my life who tried to lessen the burden; someone who cared enough to try to fill the gaps and point out the gifts that were right in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said to him, “I am grateful for this. Truly.”
As we sat quietly in our chairs, the mountains silhouetted by the light of the stars, the sounds of the desert enveloping us, we were interrupted by the crunch of approaching footsteps. A woman from the adjacent campsite soon stood before us.
“Hello! Happy Thanksgiving,” she said cheerfully as she held out an aluminum pie tin. “It’s pumpkin pie. We saved you each a piece.”
Moved, I found myself unable to speak. Had she heard my tirade about leaves and skies and pie? Had she seen a young couple with no family to share Thanksgiving and wanted to make us feel included? Had she known we had no pie??
Lorin graciously thanked the woman, who apologized for her noisy group. She explained that the two families didn’t see each other often. He told her we hadn’t been bothered by the noise at all. Couldn’t hear a thing, he said with a smile.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I croaked as she departed, finally able to force the words from my mouth.
Pumpkin pie was never my favorite among the pie choices at our Thanksgiving table. I tended to gravitate toward apple or chocolate cream, but I always ate it anyway. This slice of pumpkin pie, however, remains one of the all-time most delicious desserts I have ever consumed. All these years later, I can still taste it on my tongue: it’s light, fluffy texture, the buttery crust, the perfect balance of fall spices. It was perfection. No pumpkin pie has or ever will compare.
I have wondered, in the years since, if it was truly a spectacular pumpkin pie, or if it was the spirit in which it was given, the gesture of shared food as the embodiment of the original Thanksgiving, or the solace of a small taste of home that made it unforgettable.
I never did acclimate to holidays in Nevada. I found I wasn’t able to grow roots in the arid soil; but Lorin was. After another year, I returned permanently to the changing seasons of the Northeast that nourished my hydrophilus soul, and he blossomed in the desert sun, nurturing his adventurous spirit, experiencing all that the world had to offer, and quietly helping others to find meaning and gratitude in unexpected places and at unexpected times, just like he did for me on that unforgettable Thanksgiving so many years ago. It’s a lesson I will remain grateful for on this and every Thanksgiving to come.
In memory of Lorin Correll and his well-lived life