If you’re a regular reader of I Remember Halloween, you know that I like things flavored like pumpkin. During the Halloween season, I consume anything and everything I can find in such variety. I eat pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins, drink pumpkin beer (you better believe it). I drink pumpkin lattes. Just yesterday I had a pumpkin waffle. You get the picture.
But what is the most famous pumpkin flavored treat of all? The answer of course is pumpkin pie. And I, Jonathan Gerblick, do not much care for it.
I wouldn’t admit this for years. Actually, I’d say I was in denial. How could I not like pumpkin pie? It’s pumpkin, and it’s pie. Two wonderful things. I would eat it every year at Thanksgiving, or when it made an appearance anywhere outside that realm. But unless it was smothered in whipped cream I could never bring myself to enjoy it much.
It’s not that I hate the stuff. It’s perfectly inoffensive. But to me it’s bland. Milquetoast. And I still don’t know why I feel that way. There’s no earthly explanation.
You can call me crazy. You can insist that I just haven’t had the “right” pumpkin pie. But friends, I’ve eaten many a slice. I know exactly what it is, and I can’t fall in love with it.
And it’s tearing me up inside.
P.S. I brought myself to make this confession this morning, when I came to work and discovered an entire pumpkin pie sitting out with a note saying, “help yourselves”. I did not feel compelled to help myself.
P.P.S. Pumpkin cheesecake and pumpkin pie/cheesecake hybrids are stellar, and I will speak no ill of them.