In Praise of Pumpkins

One advantage of writing a column on a regular basis in a regular newspaper is the various information nuggets one can unearth. And the advantage of reading a regular column in a regular newspaper is the goldmine of information that one can accrue in a month or two or ten.

So, today's gem is as follows: Today is National Pumpkin Day. Now. While you read this. As in the big gap between breaky and snacky – third snacky, for that matter.

You must be awed by that fact (or maybe you're just simply odd). Whatever, I read it in a book, so it must be true. If I revealed my source, that would diminish the glitter of all these priceless tidbits that I deposit before you each week.

This week alone, I have had some intriguing variations of pumpkin use. The most significant one was the soup that I ate out of a pumpkin near Two Hills, at my married daughter's home. It's the type of entre that one eats at an East Side Mario's, not east side Hairy Hill's. I am not the adventuresome type when it comes to my food, so I was less than excited when I discovered breaded chicken in soup was the main course – all warm and bubbly in a carved-out pumpkin. Nor am I, however, a rude dude with food, especially when it comes to my daughter's first meal for us. And I must say, it was delectable (and I am not just saying because she reads this column.)

Unlike zucchini, the chameleon of vegetables, I don't think there is any way pumpkin can be disguised, mistaken, converted, or different from what it really is. On that zucchini note: I can't believe how many ways I have been duped, er, treated to eat what I thought was chocolate cake.

But back to the pumpkin patch. By nature, pumpkins are really the unsung heroes of the vegetable garden. They've gain some infamy in "Peanuts," along with some notoriety in Cinderella, where her beautiful horse-drawn carriage will turn into a pumpkin if Miss Cindy doesn't obey her curfew. In other words, disobey the rules and your punishment is a pumpkin pedal-pusher.

I will not lie to you and tell you that pumpkin pie is my favourite. Almost, but not quite. However, if you want to bake one for me, make sure it has lots of whipped cream. (For the record, my favourite pie is rhubarb-strawberry. I have often thought of opening up a dessert-only - actually, pie-only - establishment. I'd call it The Pie Guy.)

While pumpkin pie is probably its greatest use, pumpkin muffins could be another. Again, best with a generous dose of icing. And kids have a lot of fun making jack-o-lanterns with carved-out pumpkins, though it's something our kids have never done. Even down here at Foremost, at our annual Pumpkin Festival (note the name!) next month, there is a pumpkin contest with a variety of categories.

It's not all glorious in Pumpkinville, however. By their very nature, they are big and bulky – and there is no Jenny Craig help them down-size. They can never be crammed into a vegetable drawer in the fridge, or in any drawer for that matter. In fact, as I write this, my son's two gigantic pumpkins (and they're always gigantic, aren't they?) are sitting on a bureau in our livingroom.

If they are not out of the way, they are in the way.

And then there is the colour. I happen to like orange (but that has nothing to do with my Irish Protestant roots, either). It's bright and vibrant, not like most garden-variety types, with varying shades of green. But some think the greener the plant, the healthier the plant. Others think that the greater the colour variety (hello, peppers), the higher the market value.

It's not every vegetable that has a day named in its honour. Have you heard of National Zucchini Day? National Rhubarb Day? I haven't either, and I didn't see any references my uncle's bathroom reader.

So, cheers to the noble pumpkin. May it come to be a symbol of everything good about Canadians, namely, steady, unpretentious, and earthy. And sometimes just a little overweight.

Peace to All - or I'll Thrash You

 

The one thing I have never been is a fighter. Just because I smell like a boxer, eat like a Sumo wrestler, and think like a thug, does not mean I am tough or brawny. And no, there is no truth to the rumour that I must register my hands in every town I stop at – register them as lethal weapons, that is.

While I hesitate to call boxing a sport, I certainly wouldn't say that to any boxer himself, especially if he was any tougher or taller than me. On the other hand, I have no problem viewing wrestling as sport, unless it is that sham called WWF (which stands for, I believe, "wildly, wantonly fake").

I say the preceding in light of the fact that it is International Conflict Resolution Day today. The full meaning of the Day is as follows: 'International' means this is an opportunity for nations around the world; and 'Conflict Resolution' means that disagreements and differences can be resolved without guns, fists, or even screaming. Or throwing shoes.

As international as the day can be, it can also be as local as your family, my family, every family. Many of us would love to have others assume that our kids are great, that our parenting skills are fantastic, and that our homes are modicums of peace. Or, we may know the above isn't true, but, in turn, feel that other families have it all together.

Neither view is valid, so the sooner we nix them, the better.

Let's get up close and personal and talk about our own families. After all, if the home is wobbly, the community is weak; if the community is weak, the province is fragile; and if the province is fragile, then the country is in deep trouble.

Whew! I think I just described Canada. Perhaps the main reason why we have law and order issues, economic issues, moral issues – I think I'll stop here, it's getting too depressing – is because we have homes with issues, homes that do not resolve their conflicts well.

If I could format my column differently, I'd have a couple of columns with checklists. On one checklist I would have an inventory listing the causes of conflict; on another, I would have ways these conflicts are resolved. The first checklist would include the following: dress code, language, computer use, habits, chores, money matters, and a few more; on the second list I would lay out reactions, such as swearing, punching, throwing, ignoring, running, phoning and texting, and finking (good ole' 60's word!).

There actually needs to be a third list, but few of us want to bother with it. It would suggest methods of resolution – methods such as lowering one's voice, waiting to calm down, picking both the reason for battle and the timing of the battle, and working with tactful phrases, such as "I have a little trouble with that," or "let's talk about this over a fresh pot of coffee and doughnuts, my treat."

We need to react really fast when one of our kids is in danger, but really slowly when the relationship is in danger. React, yes; but it often boils down to how we react. To my shame, my earlier years in teaching were marked (and marred) by the wrong kind of reaction occasionally – and it often alienated my students. I believe I have learned how to handle adverse situations better over the years. I think that's called maturity.

Much grief would be diminished if only we could resolve conflicts amicably and sensibly. No doubt we can all think back at some sorry, spontaneous reaction on our part that exacerbated the situation far beyond its necessary bounds. In other words, we over-reacted, and are quite likely paying the price in broken relationships and shattered trust.

While I don't want you to have a scene at your place tonight, if there is perchance a disagreement between you and yours, try the following approach: Take a deep breath before responding; indicate that you are "struggling with this issue" and need clarification; admit that there might be some misunderstanding, with a sincere promise to actively resolve it. That would be a a great start, perhaps even a great end, to the problem.

However, if that doesn't work, threaten them with a visit from one of your favourite newspaper columnists. I'll do my best to not have a screaming fit. I even promise to not throw my shoe.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 

I believe fall is the 'most wonderful time' of the year. Summer's too hot, winter's too long and spring's too fast. If Goldilocks were writing this column – and who says she's not my alter ego? - I believe she would express the same sentiments. She might make a crack about chairs and beds, but that has nothing to do with today's topic.

Fall is just right, even if it is a little too short. The panoply of changing leaves and the crisp evening air are only two of the reasons why I love this season. The fact that there are no more gardens to weed and no more grass to cut are, of course, contributing factors.

I am not a farmer, but it's around this time that the harvest is in, and no doubt that is a great feeling. Even in my profession, there is a certain freshness with a new school year, something that lasts (unfortunately) until about Thanksgiving weekend. And most sports teams have perfect records, mainly because most sports teams haven't started playing yet.

Even the Calgary Flames look good in the early fall.

I don't know if fall is a season of beginnings or endings. In other words, is it the final days of summer, or the preamble to winter? It has its own colour (orange), but it doesn't always have its own identity. Just last week we were uncovering ourselves because of the sweltering heat, but this week we are covering our tomatoes because of the frost. I wish it would make up its mind once and for all.

Fall is the time of year when baseball and football are winding down – unless, of course, you are the Blue Jays, then it would be mid-summer. And it is the beginning of hockey and basketball, or in the case of the NHL, one long pre-season to see who wins the Stanley Cup in June.

The icon for fall would have to be the pumpkin, but, to quote Richard Nixon, I have nothing more to say (seeing that I said it all last week). Fall could be described as the time between the dust ball and the snowflake, the yellow and the white, the school holiday that's too long and the one that's too short.

This year, in particular, fall has crept up quickly and quietly, and has presented itself to us in early September – instead of waiting until early October. I have always associated October, and October alone, as the official month of fall. But I fear that there will be very little of fall even by the middle of October. By November 1^st, if we're lucky or not, winter could have set in. With the bizarre weather patterns we've been having over the past few years, who knows for sure?

But then again, we could ask Al Gore or Michael Moore: They seem to have answers to questions many of us aren't asking.

Fall is also probably the best time to go on holidays. Circumstances beyond my control forbid me to take a vacation during early October, but I would like that to change sometime. Campground rates tend to be lower, gasoline is cheaper, and crowds are sparse. While a dip in the lake is out of the question, unless you're a kid and you don't know any better, a walk in the woods would be in order. Just make sure you wear noisy clothes, so an almost-hibernating and hungry bear doesn't mistake you for his midnight munchies..

No dust on the road and no snow on the ground, no bugs on the screen and no ice on the windows – that's what I like about fall. Like a good movie or a great novel, it's always too short. But like a good movie or a great novel, there is always a sequel. It's called next year and I am looking forward to it already.

Until then, however, I'll stay home, curl up, and enjoy this version.