The cute little pumpkin sat on the shelf. It was labeled “sugar,” which meant it would make a tasty pie. So, following the same impulse that once prompted me to buy a copy of War and Peace because it seems like a good idea to read a long and boring book, I bought it.
Reaching home, I admired the bright orangeness and nice round shape and placed it on a basement shelf where it would stay cool until I found the time to make pie from it. Probably the up and coming weekend. Certainly before Halloween. Visions of pumpkin pie slices, filled with nutmeg and cinnamon, and smothered in dollops of whipped cream danced through my head. This pie was going to be good. I just knew it.
But that weekend was a busy one, and what with this chore and that—not to mention two dogs with a stomach ailment needing strict diets of boiled hamburger and rice, the cute little pumpkin was forgotten.
A glimpse of its glowing orange skin was all I saw that Sunday evening as I carried a basket of clean socks and T-shirts upstairs. Next weekend, I promised myself, I would have more time.
But the next weekend was spent out of town, visiting my daughter. As I pulled out my suitcase from the storage room, I again caught sight of the little pumpkin, sitting patiently on the shelf. Next weekend, I promised, when I get home.
And so on and so forth. You get the point. Somehow I never found time to go through the process of baking and scooping out the pumpkin’s flesh. No need for me to belabor the point. The pie I had planned to make from the little pumpkin kept falling by the waysides of my life.
Then last Sunday, I woke with a mission. Maybe it was the memory of never finishing War and Peace, but suddenly I was filled with a fierce determination— that dang pumpkin was going to turn into something edible, and it was going to happen today!
And I almost succeeded. Hauling out the biggest kitchen knife we own (a 50-year-old Herter’s knife that rivals a machete), I hacked the little pumpkin in half, placed it on a lightly oiled cookie sheet and baked it.
And baked and baked and baked. Two hours later, after continual prodding and poking for tenderness, I hauled it from my oven. The pulp still didn’t feel soft enough, but the day was almost at an end. Now or never, I threatened the steaming pumpkin flesh as I began scraping it from the peel. Within minutes, I realized this was one tough tiny squash with only a very thin layer of pulp.
I wish I could say the result of my labors was that dreamy pumpkin pie about which I had fantasized, but it wouldn’t be the truth.
Right now, one cup of pureed pumpkin sits in my refrigerator, waiting to be baked as a pumpkin tart. Or I might freeze it and add it to the pumpkin ice cream pie that my husband makes for Thanksgiving dinner. He always uses storebought canned pumpkin.
Leave a Reply