Read by Matilda Longbottom

There are several things that signal Autumn to me…colorful leaves tumbling down, brisk mornings that nip at your cheeks, fresh apples in every market, and pumpkins stacked high. As soon as Autumn arrives, so does my urge to fire up the stove. Baking warms the house—and our hearts along with our tummies.

When it comes to Autumn baking, apples usually take first place. But pumpkins run a very close second. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, and especially pumpkin whoopie pies filled with my mom’s special Fluff-based filling—those are the tastes that bring the season home to me.

Most years, I take the easy route with canned pumpkin. But one Autumn, I decided to be brave and try fresh pumpkins instead.

It began simply enough: a drive down a back road where I came upon a farm stand overflowing with pumpkins. The farmer told me they hadn’t been given the attention they deserved that year—good in size, but not the perfect shapes people usually want. To me, though, they looked wonderful. When he offered them at a bargain price, I couldn’t resist. I filled my car to the brim and drove home with 15 pumpkins, giddy at the thought of what I might create.

My family thought I had finally lost my mind. We set aside a few for decoration, but what about the rest? I insisted they’d all find their way into our kitchen.

That Saturday became a blur of pumpkin prep. Washing, slicing, peeling, seeding, steaming. My counters filled with bright orange flesh, my freezer with containers of puree. It was far more work than I expected, but in my head, I could already see the perfect pumpkin pies gracing our holiday table.

By the end, though, I was weary. The last few pumpkins were simply roasted in chunks and served with meals—a humble but delicious reward for my effort.

The next afternoon came my big test: my first pie made with fresh pumpkin. The aroma filled the house—cinnamon, nutmeg, and anticipation. Waiting for it to cool was nearly unbearable. Finally, after dinner, we each took a slice. My husband tried the first bite as I leaned forward, eager for his verdict. He chewed, then shrugged. “Tastes the same as it usually does,” he said.

My heart fell a little. All that work, all those hours, and in the end, the taste was no different than the canned version.

Still, that Autumn and Winter, every container of pumpkin I pulled from the freezer carried with it the memory of that day—the long hours, the laughter, the stubborn determination to wring every ounce of Autumn out of those pumpkins. The flavor may have been the same, but the experience was not.

Since then, I’ve returned to canned pumpkin. It’s easier, and life is busy. But I still hold on to that season, and the lesson it gave me: sometimes the value isn’t in the final bite, but in the journey, the memory, and the love that goes into it.

Maybe next year, if my pumpkin patch thrives, I’ll try again. Because part of me still longs for that perfect pie—not in taste, but in story. ❖