The season of The Great Pumpkin is upon us—I hope you have figured out where the most sincere pumpkin patch is in our region. It’s also the season where spirited discussions happen about the pervasiveness of pumpkin pie spice and all things pumpkin-flavored. Every year, I think I will lose a friend or two over how it is too early for pumpkin-flavored things to take over all food-stuffs at grocery stores and cafés. This year, for example, Starbucks celebrated the 15th year of its seasonal Pumpkin Spice Latte by returning it to menus Aug. 28. “Too soon!” cried friends. “Welcome back, my love,” said I, clutching the paper cup while licking at the whipped cream topping. Who would deny me the pleasure of this warm-in-my-tummy beverage? The same people who despise pumpkin-flavored beer, I think.
I didn’t always like pumpkin though, and I suspect it is an acquired taste like olives and goat cheese and teeny-weenies. As our palates become more refined, we better appreciate the earthy taste of this humble gourd. When I was little, my grandmother helped me scoop out the guts of the pumpkins before we carved them. She’d separate the orange fibers from the seeds, then wash and bake the seeds. I believe there are few among us who have not had the distinct pleasure of eating burned and overly-salted pumpkin seeds.
My parents would keep the seeds my grandmother didn’t bake to crispy death and plant them in our garden the following spring. I delighted in watching the prickly, hairy vines grow and curl, eventually producing green nubs of soon-to-be pumpkins. The daily pumpkin-watch started around July 2 and ended July 5, picking up interest again in September. In the forgetting of the pumpkins growing one year, I was surprised to discover an extra-large pumpkin. My father and I took great pride in the size and shape of this beauty—first the size of a human head, and then too big for words. In my mind, it grew to about 40 pounds, but according to my parents, it was more like 39 pounds, or maybe just 20. I sensed an unasked question from my mother along the lines of, this is what you’re writing your first column about? Yes. Yes it is. Because, pumpkins!
But, you may suspect where this story is going, because the forces of evil are always at work. Our heroine (that would be me) discovered that the largest pumpkin in the land, or at least on Cranbrooke Drive, had disappeared one night, much to her horror. My parents were also perplexed. Who would steal a pumpkin from a buck-toothed, crooked ponytailed 8-year-old? The lousy neighbor next door, that’s who, I thought. My nemesis, Tommy, would steal my Barbie dolls through the back fence—I couldn’t put it past him to sink to this new low. After much hand-wringing about what to do, my father came home the next night triumphant with the pumpkin. Did he beat Tommy up, I wanted to know. Well, it was found in Tommy’s yard, but for the first time in history, he was innocent. It seemed that in my parents’ careful tending of our prized pumpkin, rotating it frequently to achieve its perfect round orange-ness, the vine twisted to the point where it could no longer support the weight of the pumpkin. It had simply become untethered and rolled down the hill.
The last Halloween that my best friend, Diane, and I were allowed to dress up we planned a sleepover at her house. We waited until that afternoon to gut and carve the pumpkins. Diane’s mother was going to roast the seeds AND make pumpkin pie from scratch. “From scratch” is a magical phrase that means people can read recipes and make food as the cookbook instructs. I’ve yet to truly master this skill, but Diane’s mother took on the challenge and made the pie. Oh, I could hardly eat dinner, I was so eager to try real homemade pumpkin pie from the pumpkin we carved. Then I started thinking about the pumpkin’s sinewy guts, and the round eyes and one-toothed smile I made for my pumpkin. It was such a cheerful pumpkin. Diane’s mother put a slice of pie in front of me. I ate a forkful and burst into tears. “We killed it!” I sobbed, somehow not bothered by the meaty pot roast we had had for dinner. Diane and I were excused from the table and she comforted me in her room. “It’s OK, Stacy. No one really likes pumpkin pie anyway,” she said while hugging me.
Now that it’s October, I know what you’re thinking—you want me to load up on all the pumpkin goodness so that the shelves go back to “normal” in time for Christmas. Thankfully, pumpkin-flavored everything will take us into peppermint-flavored season where even my taste buds take a break from cinnamon and cloves. For now, I’ve stocked up on my beloved seasonal pumpkin yogurt. My husband, a patient soul who puts up with pumpkin to a point, made a face at my yogurt. I held out a spoonful out to him. “It’s so delicious,” I tempted him, waving the spoon under his nose. He touched his tongue to the yogurt and tasted it. “Uh, no thanks.” I loved being married to that man. I will miss him.
To all the naysayers out there, I’m here to claim pumpkin season from now until Nov. 25. I must stake this claim today for, as Linus van Pelt taught me, sincerity is what ultimately wins over The Great Pumpkin. I will scan the skies at dusk this next month hoping The Great Pumpkin will arrive and make all of my wishes for 365-day pumpkin celebrations come true. Until then, you will have your store shelves devoid of all things pumpkin soon enough. Let us pumpkin lovers enjoy this moment while we can.
