Pumpkins in August — Humera, 2017 — photograph by Ben Weinberg

Oh me, Oh my,
nearly perfect pumpkin pie.

Take one pumpkin,
the one on the left, with the curly stem.

November Squash — Humera, 2017 — photograph by Ben Weinberg

The straight one called for attention,
and, while quite well formed,
and, no this is no metaphor,
I chose another.

Cleaned and steamed
a glass of wine between,
meant a closer call than bargained for,
watched pots may never boil, but attention is required
use a sharp knife to remove any over-caremalized bits.

I used to mash and blend by hand, a purist
that I was. Now, hand blender like a wand
thus powered, a whizzing wizard
and with sugars and spice blend potions
to shining velvet sheen.

Eggs and milk, healthy
until I found the cream.
Fill one pie crust baked, crisp and warm.
I used to cringe at crusts, they seemed
a touch too much, grandmothers’ secrets
out of my league. But recently, I’ve dared
and found that the secret is in simplicity
and perhaps, following a recipe?
Another metaphor, too many,
already, and not even half-baked.

Bake until a fork comes out clean,
serve chilled or hot, with cream, or not.
I tried both and found, perfection not in looks
but in this cook’s eye.
A slice of fall’s promise kept;
crust as crisp as fallen leaves,
custard smooth and rich as silk, holding
warmth of spice within.

Pumpkin pie — Humera, November 2017 — photograph by Ben Weinberg

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