Ramblings

Free Write Friday: Carving

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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.

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Ramblings

The Pumpkin

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I’m enjoying a second Thanksgiving feast with family today so will forego the usual Free Write Friday post. Instead, in honor of the pumpkin pies my three children enthusiastically helped me bake this year, enjoy this poem by John Greenleaf Whittier, “The Pumpkin.” May you and yours enjoy good food, conversation and connection this holiday weekend.

The Pumpkin

John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807 – 1892

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, 
Like that which o’er Nineveh’s prophet once grew, 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; 
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; 
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, 
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest; 
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board 
The old broken links of affection restored, 
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, 
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? 
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, 
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! 
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, 
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon, 
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better 
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine! 
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
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