There were 13 of them. Raised so they could someday sport a garish grin or a wicked wince, their expressions remained unreadable. Others before me had tried with a simple knife to attack, but no knife had been invented that could even scrape their facade.
Seeing me tremble in fear, my husband went down into the basement and---brandishing the "Rock Eater"--- emerged with confidence steeling his stride. This knife had been used in every home improvment project he had ever done. It would vanquish the enemy...
|photo by neonwilderness|
Both of us tried. The "Rock Eater" was no match for the Petrified Ones. They began to gloat and taunt.
Out to the shed went my husband. He returned, a jigsaw in his hand. Suddenly it was the Petrified Ones shivering in fear instead of me. Aaah...Could an end be in sight?
As the last pumpkin was cut up, the stringy gunk and seeds scooped out, and then the quarters of the enemy roasted, I shook my head in wonder. The tender flesh so easily was spooned out. The Petrified Ones...tough? Not so much anymore...
It's amazing what a power saw and a 350 degree oven will do...
|photo by dyogi|
(This story is true. A teaching colleague of mine generously offered to broach a local farmer in early October. She then picked up a carload full golden goodness. The farmer had given us a good price on the pumpkins, but we did not know until later that we should have been suspicious of the discount.
The pumpkins did indeed need a jigsaw before they were cut up. When a couple of them rolled out of the box when I drove them home, they sounded like rocks.
Some people have said they are "pie pumpkins" but if that is the case, it would be a tasteless pie, because the pumpkin had no discernible flavor. Adding chicken stock, tomatoes, lots of sauteed onions, broccoli, carrots and seasoning---and then pureeing---made a delicious soup, but pie? I don't think so.)