She likes pulling the top off at the stem, the way it can be placed right back like a corresponding puzzle piece. She’ll use a scoop but finds more satisfaction in her bare hands, stringy innards gripped with tenacity, pulled at until they give way. She’s the one to sort through the gourd’s flesh, retrieve each slimy seed, spread them on a baking sheet to roast to nutty perfection. The five-year-old shouts a reminder to save a few seeds for his garden; he’s studying plants, learning about spiders at school.

Then, the design. A template or a copy, stolen from a previous October or a Pinterest post. She never was good at coming up with artistic inspiration on her own. A traditional cat, an astonished ghost, a toothy grin with triangular eyes. The children need help with the markings on the convex surface, the wielding of sharp tools.

They place a tealight in the bottom of the hollowed out orb, set the creations on the front porch steps. Barely evening, it’s dark already, light from the jack-o-lanterns wink at those passing by. Children satisfied with the bright orange set against Benjamin Moore’s Newburg Green, they retreat to the warmth of the indoors to sip hot cider. Cinnamon and cloves suffuse the air as they gather roasted seeds to snack.