As a kid, I didn’t look forward to Halloween for the candy, the parties or the opportunity to dress in my mother’s clothes without the nasty social repercussions. No, what I awaited was a pocket full of baked pumpkin seeds—seasonal sprouters of eternal happiness.
For years, they were the stuff of culinary ritual. Equipped with my two-inch saw and cereal spoon, I became Dr. Kesslering, pumpkin lobotomist, ever-hankering for baked brains. I would scoop from the gooey mash with the primal intensity of a Chinese toddler, adopted by ruthless American parents, searching for his homeland in the playground sandbox. Shoveling the gobs to my brother, he then separated the seeds from the sticky stuff (ironically, a skill required for the success of both innocent, naive pumpkin seed bakers and gangbanging drug dealers) and placed the triangular morsels, latent with possibilities, on the awaiting tray. A sprinkling of salt, the steadiness of a Mother’s hand, and fifteen minutes later, a pan-full of itty-bitty flavor nuggets exited the oven, rich in goodness, subtle in their sin. Receiving a sandwich bag busting with divine potential, I would find my peace.
Face carving? An afterthought. I was an artist, not an amateur—face carving was better left to the ankle biters, artsy and soft-handed, eager to create a pumpkin Picasso. Whether the orange orb became a Jack-o-Lantern, a Jackie-o-Lantern or a Jacked-Beyond-Recognition-o-Lantern ( the ambiguity of its gender only augmenting its ferocity), it hardly mattered. The shapes only served as windows to a looted treasure chest, as glowing proof that the pumpkin had been plundered for its crunchy delights.
My hands, nimble in their familiarity with the task, were caught in a constant leap from bag to mouth, mouth to bag—staggered as to prevent any crises of capacity. If I found the resolve to free one from the feeding frenzy and attempt a carving, eager to return to a more rewarding rhythm, I would inevitably end the picture prematurely. Come Halloween night, a lone triangle would flicker at costumed passerbys, as if to communicate: “Sorry, I was too busy gorging myself on God’s tear drops to dedicate two hands to your transitory entertainment.”
I think they would understand.
