Pumpkin season is here.
That should be stated with the same ominous dejection as “oh, the occupying German shock troops are marching down Main Street.” The flavor is everywhere, in our coffee, our pies, our breads, our muffins, our cakes, our soup, our beer.
For shame, America, for shame. For ten weeks each year, this fetid squash colonizes us. Remember Dune, where the spice is so universal in food and atmosphere that it is infused into every bite, trickling deeply into every man, woman, and child? That’s pumpkin: the yuppie melange of Americana.
The celebration of the flavor of pumpkins began in 1642 when starving European settlers were forced to humbly ask Native Americans for aid, after running out of their own children to eat. It turns out that at that level of starvation being told to eat what literally translates as “Cancer Fruit” is a compelling suggestion. Like the old Chinese proverb in which the most delicious meal ever tasted by the emperor was the plain boiled rice he ate when starving to death, the settlers became convinced that the alligator skinned orange monstrosities were celebrations of life. Being told in native vernacular the equivalent of “go eat ass”, the settlers indeed imbibed deeply of the metaphorical ass, and made it a tradition.
We pay for their misguided faith every year, and as the winds turn cool and the leaves begin to die, we feel that hunger, societal pangs for that inedible crust, ground into powder and dusted like anthrax into anything that will absorb its poison.
It comes earlier every year, creeping ever backwards towards the summer months, an infection sliding its fever up the veins, seeking the heart.
This site is not innocent, the tendrils of the great pumpkin gods twining their way even into these (mostly) good-hearted folks. There are writers on this very staff who can soliloquize at agonizing length about the distinction between pumpkin and pumpkin-spice, who share recipes in villainous Facebook dens, peddling their baked goods. Gourd whores one and all.
This may very well be the last you hear from me. TK and Sarah both promised my destruction upon writing these words, threats that I know first-hand they are capable of carrying out. Remember when Cornelius wrote for Pajiba? No? That’s because they erased him from history itself upon crossing their squash agenda.
Pass this on, my friends, do not let the truth die.