Growing up, we didn’t eat pumpkin pie—we ate pumpkin chiffon.
As a kid, I remember thinking that this pie must be fancy. Ooh la la: chiffon. It’s French, at least phonetically, but that’s not the only thing that sets it apart. Pumpkin chiffon is more decadent, more delicate, and more sumptuous than its stodgy cousin. It’s the upgrade you’ve been searching for, and it should absolutely be on more tables, including yours, this Thanksgiving.
Consider traditional pumpkin pie, a centuries-old recipe that tastes antiquated too. To my mind, pumpkin pie feels too Puritan, too colonial, too much like the let’s-wait-until-marriage of pies. That’s because the recipe for pumpkin pie really is ancient, with its first iterations going back to the Revolutionary War. Though other versions of pumpkin pie predate America—including a pumpkin literally filled with pie—the original American recipe, which resembles what we know today as custardy pumpkin pie in a baked crust, was established by Amelia Simmons in her 1796 cookbook American Cookery.
That’s how dated pumpkin pie is—it literally comes from the first American cookbook.
Sure, one man’s “outmoded” might be another man’s “reliable.” But I invite you to challenge your priors, to really think about how your classic pumpkin pie tastes. Isn’t it so often blah and bland, spruced up with only cinnamon and ginger? And worse, the texture is heavy and dense, the type of food that feels like it’s there more to fill up one’s stomach than actually excite. Yes, you can try to mix things up with a brûlée top or a marbled swirl, but at the end of the day, you’re still left with a stupefying mouthful of baked squash.
This is where pumpkin chiffon glides in to save the day. Chiffon was supposedly invented (I say supposedly because food history is often murky) in Los Angeles in 1926 by Monroe Boston Strause. Strause was an American piemaking icon and also the alleged inventor of graham cracker crust. In many ways, he’s responsible for the classic, homey American-style of pie we adore today. Chiffon pie is, in my opinion, Strause’s magnum opus, his Oppenheimer moment. The word chiffon derives from the French chiffe, which alludes to a light fabric made of silk or nylon. That’s what chiffon is—silky. It’s mousselike, airy, and it achieves this delicate texture by the folding in of a little gelatin and meringue, which is just stiffly whipped egg whites and sugar.
Traditionally, chiffon is made with lemon, but I think pumpkin makes for an even better partner. Indeed, the chiffon technique completely solves pumpkin pie’s biggest problem—that thick, dense texture. Made properly, chiffon is practically ethereal. While pumpkin pie feels clunky, chiffon tiptoes lightly; it produces a bite that instantly dissolves in your mouth but also blankets your palate with richness.
My grandma always made our pumpkin chiffon, and I have to imagine that’s because it was popular in cookbooks, magazines, and recipe columns in the 1960s and ’70s. For every year up until her death, I remember, it had a firm place on that Thanksgiving table. But then last year, my aunt Karen—who is every bit a Karen as you’d expect an aunt Karen to be—absolutely screwed us by changing the recipe. Seemingly possessed by some other worse, recently deceased Karen, she didn’t make my grandmother’s pumpkin chiffon, instead opting for a random recipe from the internet. “It was like pudding or something,” my mom spat. “She’s not touching it this year.”
Perhaps what enraged everybody was that the recipe for pumpkin chiffon is so easy to abide by: store-bought pie shell, canned pumpkin, eggs, sugar, milk, cream, and some spices. I decided to try my hand at making it, and the recipe comes together swiftly. Simply cook pumpkin puree with gelatin, sugar, and milk for a few minutes, then pour it onto stiffly beaten egg yolks and sugar. Next, you fold in meringue and freshly whipped cream. Then, you let it set overnight, like Jell-O, in a pie shell. Perfect, delicious, understated, and impossible to mess up—which is probably why everyone thinks my aunt Karen must have decided that Thanksgiving was as good a time as any to gaslight her entire family.
If you’re game to go chiffon, my grandmother’s recipe is a great starting point (see below). But you’ve got options. For instance, Bon Appétit has a pretty great one using a graham cracker crust (for the Monroe Strause twofer), and another one using Biscoff cookies (hell yeah). In terms of garnish, you can dollop some whipped cream on top (this is visually a plus but, I think, somewhat overkill in terms of texture) or add some toasted walnuts for crunch. Julia Child, in a recipe for Parade in 1982, offers a chiffony recipe that folds in whipped egg whites with sugar, but also molasses and black pepper.
I will not be quite so adventurous this year, while we’re still reeling from Karen’s betrayal. But you should give that recipe—or any other—a shot! I promise, once you are free from the swamp of traditional pumpkin pie and floating among the silky chiffon clouds, you won’t ever want to come down.
My Grandma’s Pumpkin Chiffon Recipe
Serves 6–8
3 eggs, separated
1 cup sugar, divided
1 tablespoon powdered gelatin
1⅓ cup canned pumpkin (a full 15-ounce can)
⅓ cup whole milk
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg
½ teaspoon ginger
½ cup heavy cream, whipped or 1 8-ounce container of Cool Whip
1 prepared 9-inch pie shell
1. In a medium bowl, beat egg yolks (reserve the whites) together with ⅓ cup sugar using a wooden spoon until the color is light yellow and the mixture is thick and falls in a ribbon, 2–3 minutes. In a saucepan, combine gelatin, another ⅓ cup sugar, canned pumpkin, and milk.
Heat to simmer and cook 3 minutes, whisking regularly. Remove from heat and slowly stir into the egg mixture until well combined. Stir in spices. Allow to cool.
2. Using a hand mixer or stand mixer with the whisk attachment, beat egg whites until soft peaks begin to form. Then add final ⅓ cup sugar and beat to stiff, glossy peaks.
3. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold the beaten egg whites into the pumpkin mixture, followed by the whipped cream or Cool Whip, until everything is well blended.
4. Pour into a fully baked, 9-inch pie shell and smooth the surface. Chill for 4 hours or overnight, until the pie sets.
