After the events of this previous week, I’ve started reassessing my stance on pumpkin-flavored things. It was last Monday night that my car was obliterated by an angry drunk with a rap sheet the length of my forearm when I had a pumpkin spiced latte, but I thought little of the correlation.
It wasn’t until Thursday that a single lump of pumpkin gnocchi smothered in a viscous maple beurre blanc found itself lodged in my throat with nobody around to help but the cat, who looked neither concerned nor impressed, that I caught on: Pumpkin means danger.
But thinking of those children starving in various multisyllabic faraway countries, whom I’ve dubiously been told would be happy to eat a variety of oddly-prepared, ill-fated foods I rejected growing up, I side-eyed my remaining pumpkin puree and sighed. Stuck halfway between duty and hazard, I broke out the puree, which of course meant only one thing: I was probably going to catch dysentery.
Except I instead got risotto.