Picking the perfect pumpkin

Visiting a pumpkin patch in October is a family tradition. My children love the wide expanse of field, pumpkins as far as the eye can see, and the possibility of finagling a ride in a wheelbarrow. Grocery store bins just can’t compete with walking on a living farm looking for that special pumpkin. The one that is just perfect. The one that each child chooses for her very own.

When I was a child, “the one” for my sister was the biggest pumpkin she could convince my parents to lug out of the field, but for me it was a small, just right for two hands to hold pumpkin that I would cradle like a pet. My own children have developed no such specialties, at least not yet, so a wide brown field strewn with pumpkins offers the giddy possibility that any one might be the one, and they all need to be checked.

Which is all fine and good until it starts raining.

“Look, kids, this one is perfect!” I shout in an effort to speed things up as water starts running down my neck.

“Look! It has just the right place here for a face to be carved…”

”Huh,” my daughter shrugs, without looking up. She walks to each pumpkin one by one and inspects it closely.

I look around me for my son, hoping he’ll be closer to making a decision. I see him in the distance, running gloriously free through the muddy field. He opens his mouth to taste the rain.

For my first October as a parent I required not one, but many different perfect pumpkins. One the perfect size for my baby to hold in front of her as I took three rolls of photos. One just the right size for her to stand in as I took exactly three photos—then she developed a strong opinion about the feeling of pumpkin innards on her bare feet. Finally, a huge pumpkin big enough for both her and her older cousin to pose on for one last photo shoot between pony rides and ice cream.

Luckily we live in a region that is more than able to meet the needs of pumpkin specialists of all shapes and sizes. When family is in town we take them to a large farm with carnival rides, corn mazes, the works. When it is just us, we chose our local co-op, South 47 Farm, with its heirloom pumpkins and the lovely U-pick fields we’ve watched all season long. What better way to keep local farms going than to visit them, buy fresh produce from them, and watch the kids grow up in them? Every year we look forward to grabbing a wheelbarrow and searching for the special magic the fields have to offer.

When I was pregnant with my son I found something new: a small white pumpkin. I planned to carve it for my daughter with a simple ladybug design. When we cut it open we were surprised and delighted that the inside was still bright golden orange. It was beautiful glowing with warm candle light against a deep blue autumn evening, a pale pumpkin with a warm heart. The soon-to-be big sister lay down on her tummy and gazed deep into the glowing wonder inside.

“Mom, where are the white ones?” My daughter calls to me in a field filled with orange. Our wheelbarrow is filling with water. My son has his arms around a pumpkin now, and falls. My husband scoops them both into the wheelbarrow and turns toward the exit.

“Come on, kiddo just pick something, they are all pretty good,” I say to her, and reluctantly she does. We head for the big tent with the cash registers, wet and muddy, and then we see them…

“Look…” we say. “The one.”

My daughter runs to a pile of mini pumpkins, just the perfect balance of orange and yellow variegation, just the perfect size for her little hands. The rain has stopped, and I don’t mind now that she takes her time. My son holds fast to his muddy orange pal in the wheelbarrow, soaking wet and satisfied in every way. And on a table of heirlooms I find a white one, with just the right heft in my hands. It’s bigger now than the pumpkins I used to carry home. Inside I know it will be golden and beautiful, and I will carve it with many different small shapes, crescent moons and autumn leaves; and this year both of my kids will stick their fingers in and tell me, with their own big words, which ones they like best. As the pumpkins are measured and paid for, I watch the kids climb up the pile of haystacks, jumping and falling, rosy cheeked and laughing, with pieces of straw in their hair. I snap a few pictures and tuck them away for next year, when the kids in the photo will look so small, and the children at my side will be so big.