Every year, it’s my job to carve the pumpkins. This year, the teenagers did not choose a pumpkin each, so only two pumpkins demand my attention. I hate everything about carving pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns.
I hate cutting off the tops, scooping out the guts, and carving faces with my gigantic chef’s knife. I have no idea how people make those fancy curvy designs. If it’s not a triangle, I cannot carve it.
And don’t think that I want to, either. Because I do not. I believe that I could master pumpkin carving if I cared enough, but I do not. I clearly don’t own the right tools and I don’t care. (I once saw Martha Stewart make the cutest polka-dotted jack-o-lanterns, using a power-drill with special attachments that dug out perfect circles of various sizes. I have a power-drill, but not those attachments.)
So, I finished one jack-o-lantern. The other is gutless, sitting on the kitchen table awaiting the knife of doom. I am hopeful that I will not cut off any fingers, especially my own.
Grace is going trick-or-treating as a skeleton. Zachary is going as a . . . ninja? Some guy dressed all in black with a glowing eye mask. Who cares, really? The point is candy, glorious candy, hopefully without added melanine. (Don’t eat the coins. Okay, okay, we know. Do you know? If you don’t, just Google it. And rethink eating chocolate manufactured in China.)