Signs of Fall
23 September 2013
I got him the motherfucking pumpkin. It wasn’t even a pie pumpkin, and I had big plans to surreptitiously substitute the canned pumpkin for the fresh, but when we opened the pumpkin and I started scooping out the stringy, slippery seeds he said, “Oh gross! I am totally going to barf.”
(He’s so fastidious. What ever happened to worms and snails and puppy dog tails? This goes right along with the fact that I have to bait his hooks with live squirming worms when we go fishing.)
Anyway, he agreed to use canned pumpkin for the pie. We made the fresh one into a jack-o-lantern, accessorized with an eight-inch chef knife sticking out of the side of its head.
The pie turned out great. Teresa came home. And last night we slept with a comforter over the sheet. And yesterday I wore jeans all day long, and it didn’t get hot until the afternoon. And right now I have a fleece blanket wrapped around me, though all the living windows are wide open in the early morning dark.
I explained Indian Summer to Enzo, realizing as I was speaking that I had no idea what it really means, other than hot dry fall weather, and wondering if perhaps it might be a tad racist. But why?
Must add that yesterday I taught one of Enzo’s friends to ride a bike, a fact that still makes me ridiculously happy.