Signs of fall: 

Leaves changing color, the air grows crisper, nights grow shorter and I can finally enjoy a pumpkin spice latte. Or five. I can attempt baking pumpkin cookies because even scorched, they still taste damn good. Pumpkin bread usually goes the other way. Mine typically comes out mushy, but in my mind, still spicy and delicious. Pumpkin pancakes . . .  okay, let’s not get crazy. I’ve seen pictures of them, and they look awesome.  

But over the past few years, we’ve gone pumpkin crazy. Yesterday at the grocery store, I saw pumpkin candles. Pumpkin bathroom spray? Pumpkin air freshener. Things that have no business being pumpkin.

My beloved orange beauty has become the easy girl in high school. I long for the days when pumpkins were more– selective. Instead of doing the football team, she played hard to get. She was elusive . . . and celebrated. She was a rare, beautiful thing– the bald eagle of the root vegetable world. Admired. Envied. Proud and confident of her lush, curvaceous beauty. Please dear pumpkin . . . I want you to return to your roots. And vines. Resist the temptation to commercialize your value. Hold out for love. Hold out for fall. I want the pumpkin I fell in love with as a child. And maybe another cookie or two. 

One of my secret passions is cooking shows. Watching them. Unfortunately, I am rarely ever able to replicate what I learn. To my chagrin, I am a terrible cook– but something of an expert at putting out small kitchen fires. To date, I have safely passed four major holidays (knock on wood) that I have not set something ablaze. One ‘event’, as my kids call them, was on New Year’s Eve. Did you know that steaks left on the broiler too long can ignite? Like– actually on fire? After that, we started a new family tradition of ordering Chinese food to ensure the safe welcome of a new year. Let’s just say I have an intimate knowledge of hand-held fire extinguishers. Another beloved tradition: before all family dinners, my adoring husband typically sets out antacid tablets by each place setting. I’ve never seen THAT on Top Chef.

I am the person in your office who has to sneak their baked goods into the kitchen. Because if anyone knew those cookies were mine, they would think twice before eating them. The rare times I heard rave reviews about something I baked– okay it was only that once– was when I overheard co-workers talking about my banana bread. (Confession– I make a killer banana bread. In the good way. Like you probably won’t be poisoned by it.) Co-workers were using process of elimination to guess who’d left the ‘delicious’ – I kid you not– banana bread in the kitchen. And the phrase “there’s no way it could be her” was definitely uttered when my name came up. It has been suggested by too many people to count that I could easily be a contestant on Worst Cooks in America. To them I say, bite me. In an amuse bouche sort of way. See– I learned that fancy term from a cooking show.

So, along with whatever random thoughts I post here, will be a series of my cooking disasters. Sadly, they are plentiful and ongoing. When the result is not completely scorched, I will try to post pictures of the results.

I hate pies. Making them.

I love eating them. And when I say ‘making’, I mean it in the loosest sense. I unapologetically love refrigerated pie crusts. Let’s face it, of the fifty-seven steps required to make a pie, fifty-two of them are about the crust. Eliminate those steps, and I have fifty-two less things that can go wrong. There are still the apples to peel and cut and all those mysterious ingredients that have to make it under the glorious store-bought crust. I used to think those other ingredients were kinda optional. Boy, was I wrong. Forgetting one little thing . . . and all of a sudden, people are spitting bites into their napkins.

I once got in an argument over piecrusts with a woman at work. Seriously. She was a piecrust snob. One who raved over the wonders of her crust. It was legendary. Best ever. Winner of contests (yeah, right). She questioned my sanity  because I maintained that store bought crusts were flaky and delicious and more importantly– way easier. I might have eventually conceded to her argument. Let’s face it– if you’ve got the mad skills to not be intimidated by the daunting task of making crust, you’re probably a damn better cook than me. Again, remember that bar is set pretty low. But, still.

Coworker lost her argument. Because here’s what she said: She spends all this time on her award-winning, best-ever, legendary pie crust . . . and then she dumps a can (a CAN!) of gelatinous, fruity slop inside the crust. What??? Even I can’t cop to the can. Because no matter what– unless I’ve cut a thumb off (and I’m not sayin’ it won’t happen someday), but until it does . . . I can hack up the apples to go in my pie. Or buy the blueberries. I can slice peaches, people.   

And yeah, my knife skills are non-existent. But, once you slap the cover on a pie, who’s looking? Knife skills– another funny term I’ve learned from watching Top Chef. Despite being a Top Chef addict, a Tom Colicchio mega fan– I snicker every time I hear it. Isn’t the sole point of using a knife to cut something up? Does my carrot have to look pretty?

Pie to me means fall. Although I occasionally get the urge to take a stab at peach or blueberry pie in the summer, I usually manage to talk myself out of it. Or . . . my husband does. He tends to be right about some things. “It’s hot out, hon”. Or the “who runs the oven in the summer?” excuse. Or the classic “aren’t you too tired to bake” . . . Wait a minute- 

He’s even gone so far as to claim he doesn’t like pie. Unless we’re at a restaurant. Or his brother’s house. Or the convenience store . . . where he will actually buy the suspect, gelatinous, could-outlast-a-nuclear-winter cherry pie. The one you’d contemplate while you’re paying for gas . . . in lieu of the week-old hotdog spinning in the case.

So, when all of his excuses fail to deter me, and I get the simultaneous yearning to forget I suck at baking, we’ve typically arrived at the glorious season of fall. Sweater weather. Ripe pumpkins. Cold cider. Addictive apple cider donuts (seriously– what’s in them– crack?). Harvest colors. Falling leaves. Crisp nights. And burnt piecrusts. The essence of fall. 

Oven, here I come.