Forget pie. Embrace the trifle

Inspired by a text from a nervous first-time Thanksgiving host — the sort typed in a mild panic just as November dawned — I’ve spent the past several weeks gathering other queries about hosting the annual feast for our inaugural holiday advice issue of “The Bite,” Salon’s weekly food newsletter.

They came in like little confessionals. There were the practical pleas (“What should I be serving beverage-wise?”), the aesthetic dilemmas (“Do I have to splurge on seasonal décor, or can I simply dim the lights and call it a day?”) and the ones clearly forged in the long, uneasy heat of family history — like the lament about a culinarily incompetent cousin who insists on helping in the kitchen, usually to catastrophic effect.

But one question kept resurfacing, from multiple corners of the inbox, as if readers were whispering it behind cupped hands: What if we just aren’t a pie family? 

Lydi, my friend in Asheville, embodies this dilemma. Over the phone, she explained: “I think the pandemic made a lot of people rethink how they do holidays. For us, that meant a real, official family meeting last year, led by my project manager dad, complete with a ‘dessert survey.’ The meeting itself was unnecessarily complicated, but the result was resounding. Everyone was on board with Thanksgiving flavors, like pumpkin or sweet potato—but nobody actually liked pie. Cake feels wrong. Cookies aren’t really celebratory. Ideas?”

The question carries a quiet kind of rebellion I especially savor this time of year: why cling to a tradition that no longer delights? Holiday customs—what lands on our plates, the rituals we endure—so often resemble a polite adherence to the Abilene paradox: nobody wanted this ride (or the pie), yet by god, there it is, at the center of the table, insisting on itself.

Enter the trifle, a dessert that doesn’t get nearly enough credit for its multipurpose holiday charm. It’s dramatic without being fussy, customizable without being complicated, and frankly, visually festive in a way that says we tried, but not too hard. 

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For me, trifles sit in the same category as icebox cakes—slightly chaotic, unexpectedly good and suspiciously easy. In fact, I’d characterize it as a holiday triple-threat: easy to make, easy to serve, easy to clean up. Over the summer, I wrote a whole guide to upgrading icebox cakes, and most of the same rules apply here: start with a hero flavor, hand-whip your cream and layer with intention.

Some trifle ideas to consider this Thanksgiving:

Apple Cider Doughnut Trifle

Day-old cider doughnuts are your secret weapon—they’ve got just enough dryness to soak up cream without turning mushy. Tear them into rustic chunks and toast lightly in butter until the edges crisp and scent curls through the kitchen. Fold a touch of Greek yogurt into hand-whipped cream: the yogurt keeps it airy and adds a subtle tang that cuts through sweetness, creating tension on the tongue. Roasted apples, dusted with cinnamon and brown sugar, bring soft caramelized notes, while spoonfuls of apple butter introduce deep, sticky fruit flavor. Cinnamon sugar on top adds crunch, a tactile punctuation mark that makes every bite feel deliberate.

Pumpkin Roll Trifle

Layer pound cake with thin ribbons of pumpkin pie filling and a simple maple-sweetened cream cheese. Whip cream to soft peaks for a topping that holds its shape but yields under a fork. Pecans — toasted or candied — introduce flavor and texture contrast: that little crunch can transform the dish entirely.

Cranberry-Citrus Trifle

Stack ladyfingers with whole-berry cranberry sauce, vanilla pudding, and whipped cream flecked with a decidedly ungodly amount of orange zest. Top with candied orange peel and call it festive.

Pie, meet your new competitor.

This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, recipes, technique explainers and interviews sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.