The breeze that only a month ago cooled,
now chills as you walk down the street. On front porches, the wilting, orange
forms of carved faces beckon the change of seasons. The poor, mangled
vegetation sits in wait to become either food for local fauna, garbage, or
worst, a splatter on the street. These ash-encrusted pumpkins have lost their
culinary value, but my former jack-o-lantern, lit with a flashlight, now lies
in pieces, at 400⁰, and lightly slathered in butter and salt.
To me,
pumpkins are the harbinger of fall. The ubiquitous use in coffees and baked
goods, more often than not as a flavored syrup, only serves to dilute the
delicate nature of the gourd (although those that know me have seen me guilty
of ordering the sugar and spice laden latte). A cloud of steam fogged my
glasses as I opened the oven door to reveal the roasted slices. Having cut them
smaller, the numerous edges had caramelized, which would provide a darker color
and richer flavor to the final product. As I scooped the flash from the peel,
the pumpkin had become soft and pliable in my hands, but not sticky or gunky. The
work bowl of my food processor was filled and emptied multiple times as the
blades rended the cooked flesh into an unctuous puree. As though I was baking
cookies, I couldn’t help but sample the supple, dark orange pulp the stuck to
the spatula.
It was
intentional, leaving out spices from the cooking process, as I wanted as pure
of a pumpkin flavor as I could to leave open as many culinary doors as
possible. To this end, not all of the former jack-o-lantern was pureed. I was
challenged to compose a pumpkin salsa, and so the slices destined for that dish
were removed early and cubed. Crisp apple played the role of tomato and sweet onion
was substituted for white or yellow. The subtlety sweet pumpkin brought more of
its vegetative nature to the mix, the entire salsa having a crunch akin to a
slaw which topped shredded chicken for dinner.
The
next morning, the puree was dolloped into a bowl and whipped with two eggs, milk,
cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and a dash of salt. The resulting thick, yellow-brown
soup smelled of bread potential, but that would be another day. Once the pad of
butter’s sizzling aroma turned nutty in the hot pan, the egg mixture was poured
evenly in. With the slow wrist rotation of omelet creation, the concoction
congealed and with a flip, the frittata was finished. A spoonful of
honey-infused greek yogurt graced the center, it’s cool, creamy, tart flavor
contrasting with the heavy, spiced pumpkin. Both mingled and melted in my mouth
as I melted into the couch, lounging in a weekend breakfast.
I was
inspired by the egg and pumpkin combination, so for dessert the next day, I used
the creamy fat from eggs yolks with the literal creamy fat of half and half to
make a crème brulee. After the dairy had finished cooling from its steep in
spices, it was combined with pumpkin, sugar, and egg yolks. Soupier than
before, I was tempted to dip bread into the mixture, foregoing the custard in
favor of another breakfast, but the 300⁰ oven with a water bath won out. After
30 minutes of cooking and another 30 of cooling, I dusted the shimmering skin
of the custard with sugar. I find the ‘click’ and ‘fwoom’ sound of a culinary
torch satisfying, so to the hissing of the bubbling, caramelizing, sugar. Once
allowed to harden, my spoon penetrated the surface with the accompanying
distinct crack. I could feel the smallest slivers of pumpkin through the silky crème
along with a slight crunch from the burnt sugar as my tongue pressed against
the roof of my mouth. Who knew that ghastly face would eventually bring a grin
to mine?
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