October is usually the time of year I start seeing pumpkin flavors advertised at supermarkets, coffee shops, and eateries: pumpkin spice lattes, pumpkin crème brulee, pumpkin bread, and tarts, cookies, soups, cheesecakes, and muffins, building up to the holidays and, yes, that infamous pumpkin pie. I don’t mind pumpkin flavors now, but I hated them for a long time, avoiding anything with pumpkin in it.
One afternoon, when I was about eight years old, my mother whispered, “I’m going to make a special dessert for supper tonight.”
“Really?” I asked, already excited about what she might cook up. “What is it?”
She smiled. “It’s a surprise. So, don’t come in the kitchen.”
I busied myself in my room down the hall, listening to pots and pans clang and later catching a whiff of melted butter. My mouth watered at the thought of biting into a warm pastry crust. I didn’t know if I could wait until dinner. When I heard her open the oven door, I quietly tiptoed to the kitchen and peeked around the corner.
My mother saw me. “Do you want to try a small piece?”
My head bobbed up and down. Of course, I did.
“Okay. Sit at the table here, and I’ll cut you a tiny piece. Besides, I’d like to know if it turned out.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Pumpkin pie,” she answered.
“What’s pumpkin pie?” I had never heard of it before.
“Well, you know those orange pumpkins you see at Hallowe’en. Inside, it is filled with an orange pulp you can scoop out and cook. Once done, mix it with sugar, cinnamon, butter, and other spices to make the filling and place it in a pie pan lined with pastry dough. Kind of like apple pie.”
I loved apple pie. I couldn’t wait to try it. I watched as she cut a tiny piece and placed it before me. It didn’t smell like apple pie. It didn’t smell much like anything.
She handed me a fork. “Bite in.” She sat across from me, waiting.
I cut off a large chunk, put it in my mouth, began to chew, and then stopped. Immediately. My eyes got big and round. “Ptooey!” I spit it out, rushed to the kitchen sink, and scooped up handfuls of water to rinse my mouth. When I could swallow again, I cried, “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted!”
My mother stood up. “What? Let me try.” She took a bite, did the same thing I did, and started laughing. Not a quiet laugh but laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes. “Oh my gosh, I used salt instead of sugar!” She took the pie and threw it in the garbage. “Oh, well.” She laughed some more. For her, it was funny. For me, it was more than awful. I couldn’t seem to get past that sensory experience. Not then. Not for years.
What’s that saying? Expect nothing, and you’ll never be disappointed. I don’t know what I expected then, but it certainly wasn’t what I tasted! I laugh about it now, and although I’ll enjoy a pumpkin spice latte occasionally, I still don’t eat pumpkin pie.
“Expect nothing, and you’ll never be disappointed.” Unknown
Enjoy the Passage of Time.
Sharon
© 2024. Sharon Kreider. All Rights Reserved.
