When I was very young, my family lived in Chicago and we would go to my (paternal) grandparents' place south of town for all the major holidays. For Thanksgiving, I can remember loading up in the car after my dad got off work on Wednesday, falling asleep in the car on the ride down to Ashkum and waking up as one of my parent's carried me into Grandma's kitchen.
One year, probably the year I turned 5 (my birthday sometimes falls on Thanksgiving, you
know), my mom had baked a bunch of pies to take with us. Pumpkin, apple--she put them on the floor of the car in front of my seat and told me I'd better be careful not to step in one of them. I don't remember putting my foot into one of the pumpkin pies, but I do remember my grandfather telling me that I'd have to eat the whole thing since it was my footprint. I was scared of the the man--on top of being a terribly literal child--and could not sleep that night for fear of what would happen when I couldn't eat the whole thing.
Last year, the kids were very excited to get to help make the pumpkin pies for our Thanksgiving dinner. They poured in the milk, beat the eggs, stirred and stirred--it's actually a great thing to make with kids because there is lots for them to do. About 10 minutes after I set the pie out to cool, I heard John telling Jonah "Yeah, that is really good." The little bugger had pulled a chair up to the counter and was taking spoonfuls of pie filling to his Dad. Nothing that couldn't be covered up with a little whipped cream.
This year's pie escaped with just a few fingerprint marks and a couple of pieces of crust broken off. And it was very tasty.