Editor’s note: Hiiii it feels great to post again but it also feels like there is so much to update on that I don’t even know where to start. I wrote this mini essay and wanted to share it, but hopefully I’ll be back around with some more updates on life. You can always follow along on Instagram!
Not sure if it was Charlie Brown or Instagram that made pumpkin patches all the rage, or maybe now that I’m a mom I just care more about their existence. We headed to one last weekend, our baby in tow of course. My husband Bernat kept saying we were headed to a pumpkin convention. He likes to use words he’s not sure of their meaning if they seem to fit. Every time he said it I pictured pumpkins with name tags listening to a speaker give a powerpoint on the uses of pumpkin seed oil. “Pumpkin patch, ” I said, “It’s not a convention.”
Even before getting off the train we saw the parking lot full of cars and I thought, well, technically, what is a convention? Bernat makes me do that a lot with his english word jokes and word supplements in phrases they don’t usually belong. “Huh, maybe that does fit.”
It was sooo crowded. But it was a huge amount of fun. Who knew pumpkins could be so impressive. So many shapes and sizes and so many different things made with pumpkin. Pumpkin beer, pumpkin strudel, pumpkin risotto, pumpkin pesto, pumpkin jam, pumpkin chutney, pumpkin soup, pumpkin ice cream– the list was as long as the rows of pumpkins. There were wheelbarrows free of use so we stuck our punkin in one and picked out a few pumpkins to take home with us. Everyone was having fun.
On the train back Bernat looked up the word convention. ‘an assembly of persons met for a common purpose‘ I gave it to him. He won that one.
Many Mini Wonders
In the evening at a church service we sang a praise song which referenced creation and I just couldn’t help thinking about the oddness of people coming together to enjoy pumpkins. And then I thought of the scale of grandness and how freaking amazing it is that we can enjoy a pumpkin seed ground into smithereens and made into pesto, just as we can enjoy the grandeur of the alps. They’re not comparable, but both enjoyable. I don’t know. I guess I’m a wonderer as much as I am a wanderer. And I never want to lose the wonder of small things. As a mom of a small one, I feel like that’s a daily lesson for me even as I’m sticking that tiny sock in the washer.
- Memories of Our First Home
- Her First Year Was Mine Too