The Rural Voice, 2000-10, Page 40Grandma's perfect pumpkins
While Grandpa carved pumpkins into scary
jack-o'-lanterns, Grandma made them into
everything from desserts to snacks
Story and photo by Linda Gabris
n the far corner of Grandpa's huge
garden, way down past the potato
hills and turnip tops, sat one of the
most bountiful pumpkin patches in
the countryside. Season after season
it produced the finest pumpkins
around.
Grandpa liked to tell me that "his"
pumpkins flourished so well because
the pumpkin plot was haunted with
ghosts and goblins. "You see," he'd
whisper in a scary voice, "every
pumpkin in this patch wants a chance
to be a Halloween jack-o'-lantern."
His eyes would twinkle as he
admired the big orange monsters.
"That's why they grow so hard
'cause they know that the biggest
ones always get picked to light up
the night of the dead."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Will!"
Grandmother would interrupt, "Don't
talk so silly!" She'd shake her head in
36 THE RURAL VOICE
disgust at Grandpa's far-fetched
stories. "Now, you know darn well
why 'my' pumpkins do so very well!
Let me tell you, Lizzy," she'd say,
setting the record straight, "the reason
these pumpkins are the best in the
area is because they are cultivated
from a long line of homegrown
seeds."
Grandmother liked to brag a little
because she had won a number, of
ribbons at local fall fairs for her
plump, perfect pumpkins. "The seeds
I sow are conditioned to our soil and
growing season," she pointed out,
"and I am very selective about which
seeds get picked to be saved as
planters. Not to mention", she went
on, "what a generous spread of
properly aged manure, ever -so -often,
will do."
"Pooh, manure!" Grandpa'd mock,
"It's the spirits of the night, I tell you,
Reproducing Grandma's recipes
uses pumpkin as (clockwise from
lower left) roasted pumpkin,
pumpkin nuts, and Will's
Favourite Cookies.
that make 'em giants."
"Nonsense!" Grandmother would
scold, making her way back up to the
house in a huff. "You're foolisher
than a bumblebee burblin' in
buttermilk."
Whatever the reason,
Grandmother's pumpkin patch at the
edge of Grandpa's garden always
bore an abundance of pumpkins. And
each year, come the second last eve
of October, Grandpa and I would be
lured deep into the spooky depths of
the tangled patch in search of our
"chosen" heads. There beneath the
harvest moonlight, I am certain that I
saw ghosts floating across the garden
and caught begging glimpses on the
face of every wishful pumpkin!
Grandmother only allowed us one
pumpkin apiece for carving so we
made our selection carefully. Back at
the house, we'd plunk our faceless
heads on the kitchen table. We'd
begin by taking the "caps" off first.
Next we'd hollow out the pumpkins,
saving all the seeds in a large bowl.
While Grandpa and I worked on our