This post is part of my 31 days of Love Letters series. Click here to see the rest of the posts in the series.
Dear Pumpkin, Pumpkin Spice, Pumpkin Flavor, and every other variation,
I love you. I love you warm in bread and muffins and cold in ice cream and frappucinos (I’ll admit, I just had my first pumpkin spice frapp today and it was autumn-changing).
I love you in my beer and your scent in my candles. I love you year round, Pumpkin, but you seem especially near at this time of year.
I think about you all of the time. I wonder where I will run into you next, like today in Trader Joe’s when I found you with the poptarts. You’re always a pleasant surprise, Pumpkin.
I love that you always want to cuddle and wear flannel and go on hay rides. I love that you play well with kids and I even love that you’re popular. I don’t need us to be exclusive, but it does mean a lot that you seem to love me too.
When I was small, my dad would call me Pumpkin because you’re just so obviously an endearing character (and because I was jaundiced, but I love your orange color too). He still calls me “punk” sometimes, his abbreviated version. I love that we have happy memories like that together, Pumpkin.
Last weekend, I cut myself on a can of you. Serves me right, for using the processed canned version rather than cooking you myself, but I bandaged myself up and continued on in making pumpkin bread. You’re worth sacrificing for, Pumpkin.
I know this love is short lived, that soon we’ll be in gingerbread and peppermint season and you’ll collect dust in cans on shelves again, but I don’t ever forget about you, Pumpkin. Please don’t leave our shelves any time soon.