As most of you know by now, my relationship with the pumpkin family has walked a tenuous line over the years. Last year, after an interview with Mr. Pumpkin (see Nov 12 and Nov 20 blogposts), where he passionately defended gourds across the nation, I thought I had heard the end of him. Then last week, a piece of pie I was eating succumbed to Pie-librium, tipped precariously over, and through a random sequence of events, caused the accidental stabbing of a nearby napkin holder. I tried to leave the diner quietly, knowing pumpkins are a temperamental lot. I tried; I really did try.
However, late into the night, when my inner beasts awaken and spirits trinkle down the floorboards of our house, I heard an abrupt THU-wump! at our front door. Slipping out of bed in bewilderment, I caught a contentious whiff in the air. In the flicker of the streetlight outside, I saw a hooded figure drop an unmarked envelope through our mail slot. Then, the figure vanished into the shadows, and all was quiet.
But a damp, earthy atmosphere filled our foyer. It was an odor that had a jarring effect on my memory. There was something bland but contentious…something Cucurbitaceae in the air, and I felt a marrow chill race up my spine. Carefully, I opened the following letter:
Photo by Kimi Albertson on Unsplash
Dear Mr. Blunder:
Remember me? I remember you…I know where you live. I follow your podcast, and last week’s disturbed me…grated me. You have once again insulted the Pumpkin Nation and raked our good nature across the pumpkin patch by introducing the absurd notion that our balance, our very temperament, is determined by an ancient math formula.
To suggest that a fake formula called “Pie-librium,” was the cause of your accident while eating a piece of pumpkin pie and resulted in the stabbing of a nearby napkin holder with your fork, was a fibrous insult to pumpkins everywhere. Tipping over on our crust! HA! May I remind you that the triangular shape of pumpkin pie is one of the most stable of all forms found in nature? That tipping of your piece of pie and blaming it on pumpkins? JACK-O-LANTERN’S YOUR UNCLE! That one’s on you, and you, alone. Your story was nothing more than pulp fiction, and I for one refuse to sit by and let you darken our fine heritage.
You may or may not be aware that Indiana, your fair state, is the second largest pumpkin producer in the United States, with some 118 million pounds of pumpkin processed every year. Even as I write this letter, the entire gross tonnage of pumpkins across Indiana are lining up, soldiering together on porches, for the upcoming Thanksgiving season. We are not tipped over as you suggested, or in any way losing our balance. There are a few of us who have cut out our tops to spite our carved faces, but in general I speak for all gourds in defiant opposition to your theory of shifting equilibrium, your boneheaded mathematical equation for “Pie-librium.” We can sit proud on any plate, proud of our mushy and unremarkable taste that always blends with, but doesn’t stand out during, a Thanksgiving dinner. Our national slogan, “Stable on the Table,” marches forth.
We have heard your podcast Mr. Blunder. We have your number and it is not P/E or any other formula. Let this letter be a warning to you. As President of the Indiana Chapter for the Development and Homogenization of Pumpkins, I can assure you that any more fibrous material slung in our direction will be carved, squashed and pureed. We will ripen and march on Washington if we must and demand that the word “equilibrium” be edited out of all Thanksgiving dinner conversations and ground up in the food processor of the English language. We will march – the entire pumpkin nation, including my close cousins – the watermelon, celery, gourds, and zucchini. You want numbers? You want math? How about 975 species?! There’s some math for you, and it is US! WE ARE PUMPKIN NATION.
Signed,
Mr. Pumpkin
His letter fell from my limp hands. Past lyrics from an old Paul Simon song drifted through my head: “Hello Darkness, my pumpkin friend, I’ve come to talk with you again...” and I was scared. How would I sleep at night knowing my very digestive tract might take a beating this Thanksgiving from the Pumpkin Nation? How would I get past my fears of candle-lit, stalking pumpkins?
And then, as the streetlight flickered through my foyer and shed its warm light across his letter, I notice something. Maybe in was nothing, I don’t know. It was hardly noticeable, but there in Mr. Pumpkin’s organic signature was a blotch, a spattering, a spill, and an odor that jogged my memory. I hesitated, but then brought the letter close to my nose, and smelled something familiar. It was…nutmeg, maybe a touch of cinnamon, or tarragon, and a carbohydrate daze crept over me. I felt sleepy again and safe, at least for another year.