THE JACK-O-LANTERN THAT WAS NOT TO BE

Because time spent over the stove is a rarity in the life of either Romo, each case of kitchen encounter is recordable as proof and encouragement for future victual ventures.

This particular culinary quest was mine and it was for pumpkin soup. What kind of anti-chef chooses to go for this Grail of sorts? Only me. Only me. This version of pumpkin soup is not a rapid recipe. Ever peeled a raw pumpkin? No? So you’re a part of the intelligent portion of the population, eh? Good for you. Not me. Whereas I belong to the boxed macorni and cheese skill-leveled set, I decided to go gastronomic and conquer the stubborn squash, working way above my pay grade.

Once complete, I didn’t eat the soup. I nibbled store bought bread instead. It’s just safer that way.





Because my mom tossed her kitchen scale, I had to resort to weighing the pumpkin on the bathroom bastard.


In between my slaps at the chopper and wiping of onion-induced tears (it’s true that contact lenses block onion fumes; never does chopping onions bother me—because I obviously do it so often—but I was wearing my glasses during this particular chopping session and couldn’t stop the saline from staining my cheeks), my dad—perturbed at having the commentary on his football game interrupted by the banging and clanging coming from the kitchen—remarked that there has never, in the history of onions, been so many chopped at once.



If you’ve never peeled a raw pumpkin—again, bless you, for you add intellectual value to Planet Earth—you should give de-leafing a bunch of thyme a try as an exercise in tedium and anger management. Mallory was kind enough to take over at about the point when I’d decided that the soup sippers would have to deal with stems in their servings.



Though complicated to assemble, I can see why my mom's favorite kitchen helper is the food processor; it pulverizes everything so swiftly! I used it the next day to make hummus as well and was just so impressed with its violent efficiency.





Out of kindness and respect for my familial seniority, Mal proclaimed the soup satisfactory. The little darling even carted a container of it off to work with her; the garbage can at her place of employment has rarely been so well fed.


In the end, the concoction smelled festive, but its distinct aroma would probably make a better candle scent than lure for lunch.