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.