The Great Pumpkin

When a pie pumpkin - the size of a child’s basketball - arrived on my door step, my first thought was to give it away. Why? Because it’s a pumpkin and I don’t eat pumpkin.

I’ve never heard of any Black people who eat it, in pie form or otherwise. Though it is worth noting that my tofu with ground pork and chili oil eating, former ballet dancing and skiing (well I didn’t so much ski as slide down hills wearing skis), Chinese speaking, proper “White” talking self has decided that shunning pumpkin represents the last last bastion of Blackness. Except for it is, right? On both my mother’s and father’s side of the family, it appears that this is the great orange line never crossed.

No one ever said that pumpkin had negative cultural or social value, I just never saw one on the dinner table. No one needs to talk about how they don’t eat shoelaces or keyboards, they just don’t. Perhaps a few jack-o-lanterns haunted a window or two during a certain holiday, but after they served their time they went into the trash. Looking back, my only regret is that we did not know enough to compost then.

Pumpkin pie was just one of those things people did on television. A myth, like how people make plans that include showering, getting dressed and meeting an associate down town - all in thirty minutes.

To end our holiday meals, we ate pound cakes, peach cobblers and pies - SWEET POTATO PIES. That’s what I ate. It’s what my parents(see the update), my cousins, my aunts, my grandmothers ate. My grandfather both died before I was old enough to observe their dessert choices, but after carefully studying a photo of one grandfather I feel confident typing it’s what they ate too. Every Black person (who was raised in a culturally Black environment) knows at least one person, be it a neighbor/housekeeper/co-worker who sells chicken/rib/pork chop dinners as a side hustle. What is usually the dessert of choice for these dinners? You guessed it.

I was a senior in college the first and only time I ate pumpkin pie. My friend - ethnically Korean, raised by White parents - bought one at the grocery store. I believe it was an impulse purchase for her. Here in the future, I won’t delve into my brain and bring to the surface fuzzy memories of tasting my first pumpkin pie. I will only say now that I can see that allowing a random grocery store bought pie to color all my future impressions of pumpkin pie is not unlike the person who uses an interaction with a pan handler, who happens to be African-American, to color all their impressions of Black people. The grocery chain Jewel drove this point home even further when I bought a slice of what the label said was sweet potato pie. Don’t do it people. And don’t let your friends do it either.

This brings me back to the pie pumpkin, now on the kitchen counter. Being the older, wiser, more benevolent woman I am today, I gave pumpkin another try. It’s tempting to actually use pie pumpkin to make pie, but I worry the temptation to compare it to my traditional pie choice will be too strong. Not unlike when some one decides to cover a Luther Vandross song; you know before it starts you will probably end up disappointed (Yes cast of Glee, I’m looking at you!).

So I decide on this recipe. I made it with carnival squash last week and I figured pumpkin would make a decent substitute (Note: I used wings instead of breast and I didn’t make that butter flour concoction at the end). I was actually excited when the roasted pumpkin emerged glowing from the oven. Cutting it into fragrant slices, I pat myself on the back for finally moving past my prejudice. We do have a Black president after all, it’s time, right?

This is the part of the story where I turn down the stove, pick up the spoon, lift it to my mouth and weep silently, allowing years of food bigotry to flow my heart down my face.


...


Am I still a bigot if I’m right?

In my mouth there was no sweetness, no supple richness. Not much of anything. It tastes like some one gave me bootleg squash - watery thin and kind of sour. I tried adding a bit more butter to it the next day - the same.

I’m not sure what to say now. Maybe I should have made pumpkin soup, or pumpkin mole like some suggested. If I get another pumpkin, I’ll try again.

Maybe I’ll try frying it in butter.

Can someone assure me that it will be worth it

Oh Great Pumpkin, Where Are You?

UPDATE: Dear Mom, Thank you for calling pumpkin pie a poor man's sweet potato pie on the phone today. And thank you for raising me with high standards for my orange round food stuffs. Love, Ashleigh