I have a new pie to tell you about. 

This, I’m sure, comes as no surprise, considering my job is all about the pie and, as a result, my spare time is spent researching new recipes about pie, watching videos about pie, and ogling fancy cookbooks about pie. I talk about pie (I can really talk about pie), and I spend enormous swaths of my time making, tasting, and photographing pie. Most nights, I even dream about pie. Pie, pie, piepiepie — 

You get the point. 

***

Interlude: a brief marital conversation

Just the other day, my husband informed me he’s jealous of me. 

“Jealous of me,” I said, mildly thrilled by this new insight. “Say more!”

“It’s just that your creative projects are so easy to do,” he said. “They don’t take much time or money, and you can do them whenever.” 

And then, worried he might’ve overstepped, he quickly added, “Not that it doesn’t take skill to do what you do — I didn’t mean that.”

He’s right, though. Cooking is generally a low-cost, creative outlet, especially compared to the sort of expensive creative projects of my husband’s choosing: a new shop, an addition, a house. 

“There are smaller creative projects you could do,” I pointed out. “A bucket of paint doesn’t cost that much.” 

“Yeah, but then I’d have to do them.”

“Well now that’s a different problem,” I said, thus effectively concluding that particular brief marital conversation.

***

Back to pie. 

When one of the other Magpie bakers recommended this pie — Millionaire’s — I went home and made it right away. The combo of chocolate, pecans, and coconut remind me of the frosting for German chocolate cake. Still warm from the oven, it’s gooey and lush. Cooled to room temp, it’s like turtle candy, those pretzel-pecan-caramel confections. Either way, it’s dangerously addictive. 

Unless you’re the rest of my family. They’re all like, “Millionaire’s pie? Meh. Pass the sweet potato pie, please.” 

And my mother, bless her heart, thinks it’s downright horrid. “A plain pecan pie is so much better,” she scolded, her nose tipped skyward. “The chocolate and coconut ruin it.” 

But I disagree. This isn’t a pecan pie (and for the record, I, too, think pecan pies that have been “enhanced” with chocolate are blech) — it’s a Millionaire’s Pie, which is a different beast altogether. 

And when I informed my mother, with my nose skyward, that these pies go like hotcakes and that customers, with a glint of panic in their eyes, return in search of more, she was duly chastened (though she still claims the pie’s an abomination).

Cautionary note: this is not the sort of pie you eat by the piece. Each bite is like — no, is — a candy bar so go slow.  

Millionaire’s Pie
Adapted from Midwest Living.

For the coconut, I’ve used a blend of unsweetened and sweetened flakes, as well as coconut chips — it’s all good.

1 parbaked butter crust
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup flaked coconut
1 cup chopped pecans
1 cup white corn syrup
3 eggs
⅓ cup white sugar
⅓ cup brown sugar
⅓ cup melted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt

In the parbaked pie shell, sprinkle the chocolate chips, then the coconut, and then the pecans. In a separate bowl, whisk together the remaining ingredients and then pour into the pie shell.

Bake the pie at 350 degrees for 45 to 55 minutes or until the filling is set.

Serve warm or at room temp, with or without whipped cream. Pairs wonderfully with a cup of hot coffee.

This same time, years previous: Friday fun: books and movies, in the sweet kitchen, the quotidian (12.1.14), Thanksgiving of 2013, potatoes in cream with gruyere.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Pretzel rolls, made with poison.

Safety precautions: the only casualties were two aluminum baking sheets, oops.

Grilled, gooey goodness.

Rumming the fruitcakes.

Sushi! On Mondays when Magpie is closed, the owner treats us to takeout.

Magpie’s newest part-time dishwasher.

A (stinky) reading nook.

We found toilet paper!

Boy-built.

My husband’s mowing technique.

This same time, years previous: Thanksgiving of 2018, Chattanooga Thanksgiving of 2017, Chattanooga Thanksgiving of 2016, Chattanooga Thanksgiving of 2015, pot of red beans, butternut squash pesto cheesecake, all a-flutter, apple chutney.

This year, I held off planning our Thanksgiving dinner until the last minute. I knew Leryann and William would be joining us, and my older son said that he and his housemates would be coming, but still, so much was up in the air, what with my bakery work load, the spiking pandemic, and the big X-factor: the weather. If it was cold, rainy, and windy, then we’d probably have to pick a different day or else nix the company idea altogether (unless we opted to throw the windows wide and wear masks in the house which didn’t strike me as very much fun). 

And so I waited. 

But then the forecast said it was supposed to be 65 and sunny (!!!), my days at the bakery weren’t as long as I’d feared, and nobody in our bubble got smote (smited?) by Covid. 

So Tuesday morning I pulled the turkey from the freezer to thaw and emailed my parents to see if they wanted to join us, too. Wednesday afternoon when I got home from work, my younger son proudly showed me the sweet potato pie he’d made from scratch — pie crust and filling — for the feast.

And that evening I made the stuffing and a double batch of ludicrous mashed potatoes and started giving some serious thought to the pies.

Thursday morning, I emailed the crew with final plans. We’ll eat around two, I said. Dessert will be around five. We’ll be outside all day, so dress accordingly. 

All that morning I steamed around the kitchen baking pies, roasting turkey, and making gravy and cranberry sauce. The rest of the family worked outside, raking and mowing, scrubbing the porch, and washing windows. Once everything was ship-shape, I fluffed the porch, aka the living room, hauling out the house plants and a couple soft easy chairs, and tossing throw pillows and old (clean) blankets about.

All that afternoon and evening, we lounged around, eating ourselves silly, drinking coffee, visiting, and playing corn hole.

At dusk, the twinkle lights clicked on and I dug out a couple candles. My younger son built a small bonfire and we toasted our toes (my shins were still marbled red the following morning) and told stories. 

Then, tummies full and clothes smoky, everyone split for home. The kids dismantled the outdoor living room, my husband finished washing up the dishes, and I filled my biggest soup pot with the turkey caress and vegetables, topped it off with water, and set it to simmer on the stove for the annual big-batch of turkey broth, the end.

This same time, years previous: 2019 garden stats and notes, the day before, kale pomegranate salad, monster cookies, Thanksgiving of 2011, pumpkin pie.