Pumpkin Pie Quotes

This shit is easy peasy, pumpkin peasy, pumpkin pie, muthafucka!

Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread, and pumpkin pie.

The wind outside nested in each tree, prowled the sidewalks in invisible treads like unseen cats. Tom Skelton shivered. Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows' Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet. Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked.

On the moon we have everything. Lettuce, and pumpkin pie and Amanita phalloides. We have cat-furred plants and horses dancing with their wings. All the locks are solid and tight, and there are no ghosts.

She liked anything orange: leaves; some moons; marigolds; chrysanthemums; cheese; pumpkin, both in pie and out; orange juice; marmalade. Orange is bright and demanding. You can't ignore orange things. She once saw an orange parrot in the pet store and had never wanted anything so much in her life. She would have named it Halloween and fed it butterscotch. Her mother said butterscotch would make a bird sick and, besides, the dog would certainly eat it up. September never spoke to the dog again — on principle.

There is a place, September, oh, very far from Pandemonium. A place where it is always autumn, where there is always cider and pumpkin pie, where leaves are always orange and fresh-cut wood is always burning and it is always, just always Halloween.

I see a girl caught in the remains of a holiday gone bad, with her flesh picked off day after day as the carcass dries out. The knife and fork are abviously middle-class sensibilities. The palm tree is a nice touch. A broken dream,perhaps? Plastic honeymoon, deserted island? Oh, If you put in a slice of pumpkin pie, it could be a desserted island! (Pg 64)

The jack-o-lantern follows me with tapered, glowing eyes. His yellow teeth grin evily. His cackle I despise. But I shall have the final laugh when Halloween is through. This pumpkin king I’ll split in half to make a pie for two.

He hadn't spent a lifetime pushing women away only to be taken down by a piece of pumpkin pie.

What I crave more than anything today is to sit at an outdoor cafe on a cool autumn day. I just want to feel that end-of-the-year breeze as I sip a cup of green tea and take my time with a piece of pumpkin pie. I would slump in my chair and allow my mind to roam wherever it chose. Nothing else in the world epitomizes absolute freedom to me more than that thought. I could be alone or with a friend I know so well that we wouldn't have to speak. Sometimes I wake up in the morning thinking about pumpkin pie.

You better not have touched the last piece of pumpkin pie,” she warned.               He had to laugh at that. “It was the first thing to go,

Anyone could see that the wind was a special wind this night, and the darkness took on a special feel because it was All Hallows' Eve. Everything seemed cut from soft black velvet or gold or orange velvet. Smoke panted up out of a thousand chimneys like the plumes of funeral parades. From kitchen windows drifted two pumpkin smells: gourds being cut, pies being baked.

The past was a consumable, subject to the national preference for familiar products. And history, in America, is a dish best served plain. The first course could include a dollop of Italian in 1492, but not Spanish spice or French sauce or too much Indian corn. Nothing too filling or fancy ahead of the turkey and pumpkin pie, just the way Grandma used to cook it.

Every meal contains some hint of pumpkin spice. If I’m not ingesting pumpkin, I’m breathing it in like an addict, lining every available surface of my home with candles that smell like food. Apple pie, pumpkin pie, pumpkin spice, apple pumpkin.

Even the Thanksgiving when her parents had just divorced, Hoosier Pie made the cut. ...They also, incidentally, made a pumpkin pie, but it fell on the floor, a classic example of survival of the fittest

In addition to the smells of mince and pumpkin pies, the Sage and onions of turkey stuffing, another aroma floated in the air, the very essence of Santa Claus. Years later, when I was grown up, I still remembered that marvelous fragrance and recognized it as Scotch whisky.

Bay remembered the Waverley house full of pumpkin pie scents in the fall. There had been mountains of maple cakes with violets hidden inside, lakes of butternut soups with chrysanthemum petals floating on top.

The Bostonians are very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their Common is no common thing - and the duck pond might answer - if its answer could be heard for the frogs.

Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst-- Heaven bless the mark!

Are oysters aphrodisiacs? For men, the smell of baked cinnamon buns had such a powerful impact on libido that it trumped the scents of a slew of various perfumes combined. Men were also strongly aroused by the scent of pumpkin pie, lavender, doughnuts, cheese pizza, buttered popcorn, vanilla and strawberries. The foods and smells that got women going more than anything else were licorice, banana nut bread, cucumbers, and candy.

What do Halloween creatures eat? Hot spider soup with pumpkin meat and toasted, no-salt, bat-wing chips, served best with Transylvania dips. A thistle-horehound salad mix has added crunch from sun-dried ticks. The plat du jour is hairy beast fried crisp in grimy goblin grease. Now, don’t forget dessert so sweet; try puss-cream pie or candied feet!

She smelled like vanilla spice, or pumpkin pie, or something sweet yet sinful.

This little pumpkin pie,
beauty she personify,
had my heart beat like the wings on a dragonfly I won't deny — The girl was breathtaking!
Had me bob my head against a wall like I'm praying.

There’s lots of sticky things here,” he said. “I see blackstrap molasses, wild clover honey, corn syrup, aged balsamic vinegar, apple butter, strawberry jam, caramel sauce, maple syrup, butterscotch topping, maraschino liqueur, virgin and extra-virgin olive oil, lemon curd, dried apricots, mango chutney, crema di noci, tamarind paste, hot mustard, marshmallows, creamed corn, peanut butter, grape preserves, salt water taffy, condensed milk, pumpkin pie filling, and glue.

When I look at a pumpkin muffin, I see the brilliant orange glow of a sugar maple in its full autumnal glory. I see the crisp blue sky of October, so clear and restorative and reassuring. I see hayrides, and I feel Halloween just around the corner, kids dressed up in homemade costumes, bobbing for apples and awaiting trick or treat. I think of children dressed as Pilgrims in a pre-school parade, or a Thanksgiving feast, the bounty of harvest foods burdening a table with its goodness. I picture pumpkins at a farmer's market, piled happy and high, awaiting a new home where children will carve them into scary faces or mothers will bake them into a pie or stew.

Jesus Pumpkin-Pie Christ, don’t you get it? You’re killing each other over a piece of music that was never even released as a single!

II'm falling in love with the vibrant colors as the leaves transform, I'm falling in love with the smell of spiced pumpkin cakes, pies and cookies, I'm falling in love with the cold October rain, I'm falling in love with October again and again.

You don't really want me on your team,' Lexie said. 'I'm totally terrible.' 'I know," Jake said. 'I want you on the other guy's team.' Lexie swatted him with her free hand. "That is no way to talk with your girlfriend,' she said, forgetting for a moment that Bree was right there, intently watching them. 'You're right,' he said. 'My apologies, sugar plum. I'm sorry, honey pie. I'll never do it again, my little pumpkin. Is that better?' She wrinkled her nose at him. ' feel so edible all of a sudden.' 'Cute enough to eat,' he said.

Activities will include, pretending to help in the kitchen, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and saying you're so full you're gonna throw up and then waiting ten minutes and getting more pie. Once the sun has been down for a couple of hours the Christmas season is technically upon us, so it's time for the first Harry Potter marathon of the year. Starting with film number three, because obviously, and ending with film five when the filthy casuals are allowed to go home. The hardcores can sleep at my place and in the morning we'll finish six, seven, and seven but where stuff happens. Pumpkin pie for breakfast.

(Dessert was pecan pie, always and forever, because pumpkin pie was a garbage pie you wouldn’t eat any other day of the year.)

Who eats pumpkin pie in a bathing suit on a boat in the middle of the ocean?

Treats of hot cocoa, pumpkin pie, and candy corn. Yummy Halloween.

½ cooked then frozen purple sweet potato ¼-inch piece of turmeric root ¾ teaspoon matcha 1 cup unsweetened soymilk 1½ teaspoons ground flaxseed 1½ teaspoons wheat germ ¼ cup frozen cranberries ½ cup frozen strawberries 3 pitted dates ¼ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice Dash of cardamom Scrub one purple sweet potato under running water, then pierce it a few times with a fork. Microwave on high until it is fork-tender. When it is cool enough to be handled, cut it in half and freeze both halves. (You’ll use half for this recipe and the other half next time you’re craving this smoothie.) Place all the ingredients in a blender, and blend until smooth.

Klaus leaned out the window and began to pour the mixture of blackstrap molasses, wild clover honey, corn syrup, aged balsamic vinegar, apple butter, strawberry jam, caramel sauce, maple syrup, butterscotch topping, maraschino liqueur, virgin and extra-virgin olive oil, lemon curd, dried apricots, mango chutney, crema di noci, tamarind paste, hot mustard, marshmallows, creamed corn, peanut butter, grape preserves, salt water taffy, condensed milk, pumpkin pie filling, and glue onto the closest wheels, while his sister tossed the hammocks out of the door, and if you have read anything of the Baudelaire orphans' lives - which I hope you have not - then you will not be surprised to read that Violet's invention worked perfectly.

Yes, I need to recover as soon as possible. Please give me lots food.” The mayor laughed. “I see. Okay! I’ll have Bob cook up a storm for you.” Later that night, Bob returned home from work and cooked up some of the most delicious food ever. I had steak with potatoes, rabbit stew, pumpkin pie, and some cake. I’ve never felt so full. The mayor and Emily stayed over

How the hell did you pull this off, man?" "I pulled some major strings and got us a one-night pass. And Noah here has to be back before midnight or he'll turn into a pumpkin." "Pumpkin. Can we get pumpkin pie?" Andy says, "Maybe later." Sam shakes his head. "Dude, you look totally high." It's true. Noah looks way out of it. He keeps smiling his loopy smile. "Only on life, Sam." "And a fuckton of Vicodin" adds Andy.

Spice” or “Ground Spice Mix” asked for in some recipes.  Here is an easy to make mixture.  If you want, you can substitute “Pumpkin Pie Spice” instead. Depending on the amount of preserving you plan on doing, you might want to double or triple this recipe.   INGREDIENTS: 1 tablespoon ground allspice 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon 1 tablespoon ground nutmeg 2 teaspoon ground mace (optional, add 1 additional teaspoon nutmeg)

I cut our paper dinner with a pair of scissors borrowed from the front desk of the hotel. I cooked with a spice rack box of crayons – sixteen colors. I seasoned the pumpkin pie with orange crayon, and basted the turkey's crisp skin in brown. I was remorseless with my sketchbook abattoir, playing the part of carnivore just as surely as I was play-acting the role of wife. I may as well have been a wax figure in a dollhouse eating the wax-scented food.

She had made a cheddar-and-parsley roulade. Lina had made a lentil goulash, plus almond-and-white-chocolate blondies. Emmeline had made two different types of risotto. Erin had made lamb-and-asparagus mini pies and a strawberry-and-spinach salad. Renni had made bread-and-butter pudding using chocolate croissants. Andrea had made a hearty beef goulash plus zucchini with feta and mint. Sash had made a giant pumpkin cheesecake. The kitchen was a kaleidoscope of smells.

It has now been many months, at the present writing, since I have had a nourishing meal, but I shall soon have one—a modest, private affair, all to myself. I have selected a few dishes, and made out a little bill of fare, which will go home in the steamer that precedes me, and be hot when I arrive—as follows: Radishes. Baked apples, with cream Fried oysters; stewed oysters. Frogs. American coffee, with real cream. American butter. Fried chicken, Southern style. Porter-house steak. Saratoga potatoes. Broiled chicken, American style. Hot biscuits, Southern style. Hot wheat-bread, Southern style. Hot buckwheat cakes. American toast. Clear maple syrup. Virginia bacon, broiled. Blue points, on the half shell. Cherry-stone clams. San Francisco mussels, steamed. Oyster soup. Clam Soup. Philadelphia Terapin soup. Oysters roasted in shell-Northern style. Soft-shell crabs. Connecticut shad. Baltimore perch. Brook trout, from Sierra Nevadas. Lake trout, from Tahoe. Sheep-head and croakers, from New Orleans. Black bass from the Mississippi. American roast beef. Roast turkey, Thanksgiving style. Cranberry sauce. Celery. Roast wild turkey. Woodcock. Canvas-back-duck, from Baltimore. Prairie liens, from Illinois. Missouri partridges, broiled. 'Possum. Coon. Boston bacon and beans. Bacon and greens, Southern style. Hominy. Boiled onions. Turnips. Pumpkin. Squash. Asparagus. Butter beans. Sweet potatoes. Lettuce. Succotash. String beans. Mashed potatoes. Catsup. Boiled potatoes, in their skins. New potatoes, minus the skins. Early rose potatoes, roasted in the ashes, Southern style, served hot. Sliced tomatoes, with sugar or vinegar. Stewed tomatoes. Green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper. Green corn, on the ear. Hot corn-pone, with chitlings, Southern style. Hot hoe-cake, Southern style. Hot egg-bread, Southern style. Hot light-bread, Southern style. Buttermilk. Iced sweet milk. Apple dumplings, with real cream. Apple pie. Apple fritters. Apple puffs, Southern style. Peach cobbler, Southern style Peach pie. American mince pie. Pumpkin pie. Squash pie. All sorts of American pastry. Fresh American fruits of all sorts, including strawberries which are not to be doled out as if they were jewelry, but in a more liberal way. Ice-water—not prepared in the ineffectual goblet, but in the sincere and capable refrigerator.

Oh, I can’t wait to cook up a bunch of food for them! There’s nothing better than cooking for hungry guests! Let’s see...they’d probably want lots of meat—so I’ll need to make plenty of cooked beef, cooked chicken. Ooh, I wonder if I have any more cod? Of course, I’ll bake fresh bread and pumpkin pies and bring them lots of veggies from the garden. I can’t stand the thought of them being hungry! I’ll bring enough so they can have leftovers for days. I wonder if I should send some tables, too, so they can eat a proper meal...

It’s… You’ve been all over the world. Been in perilous places, taken risks that stop my breath. In comparison to all that, will what we might have…will I be enough?” “Sweetheart…” “You said my world, this world, is colorless, remember?” It almost made him laugh. “Honey-pie, when I’m with you, I think of a thousand colors. Your beautiful silvery eyes, your lemon-yellow swimsuit, your pink sunburn, your pumpkin shoes. You’re…you’re my rainbow.” His darling, serious, wonderful, brave, spirited, beautiful, talented Jane. So, so lovable

Thanksgiving dinner is vast and steaming, crowded over the tabletop in hot platters bumping against each other. There are three open bottles of wine, all different colors, and there seem to be far more plates and silverware than are actually needed. Among the guests' contributions, there's a big round fatayer- a lamb pie- that Aziz bought from the green-eyed girl at the Iranian bakery; six sliced cylinders of cranberry sauce from Um-Nadia; whole roasted walnuts in chili sauce from Cristobal; plus Victor brought three homemade pumpkin pies and a half-gallon of whipping cream.

The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

What are you going to do with all these, anyway?" "Lot of pumpkins, isn't it?" answered Henry. "I could open my own market, couldn't I? Or make enough pies to feed the neighborhood." I admired Henry that way; he did such a good job of giving people normal-sounding answers without ever telling a lie that he could usually come across ordinary even when doing something moderately strange. For example, he didn't come right out and say, "I'm going home to make thirteen jack-o'-lanterns." That was an art.

Although the scent of her body wash lingered, fruity and floral. He breathed it in. Nice. He grinned then and imagined her standing before him now, naked, her skin damp with dewy droplets. Temptation sinned with the flick of his tongue along her moist neck and the tip of her nipple. Foreplay came in toweling a woman dry. Gently patting down soft breasts, a rub over her belly, and a deep slide between her legs. Arousal teased him unmercifully. He sucked air. His sex thickened. Throbbed. An intractable ache.

Their bodies coupled. Her breasts pressed against his chest and their hip bones rubbed. He curved his arms about her shoulders. She settled her hands at his waist. The man was solid. His muscles taut. She shifted between his legs, flush with his groin. A groin that stirred. Arousal struck hard. He bent to kiss her. Just as she stretched up to him. Time slowed with the exchange of breath. The heat of his slightly parted lips blew across her mouth. His unshaved jaw brushed the softer skin of her chin. Seconds were magnified as each memorized the impact of the moment. It was startling. Unsettling. And unforgettable. He moved on her without reservation. The pull between them was inescapable. He slanted his mouth over hers, flicked his tongue along her upper lip, and nipped the bottom one. Then sucked both hard. She nearly came out of her skin. He penetrated her mouth with his tongue. A seductive pulse of slow, then fast. Raking the roof of her mouth, then thrusting deep. He was skilled in kissing. She lost herself in the mating rhythm.

Subect: Sigh. Okay. Since we're on the subject... Q. What is the Tsar of Russia's favorite fish? A. Tsardines, of course. Q. What does the son of a Ukranian newscaster and a U.S. congressman eat for Thanksgiving dinner on an island off the coast of Massachusetts? A.? -Ella Subect: TG A. Republicans. Nah.I'm sure we'll have all the traditional stuff: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. I'm hoping for apple pie. Our hosts have a cook who takes requests, but the island is kinda limited as far as shopping goes. The seven of us will probably spend the morning on a boat, then have a civilized chow-down. I predict Pictionary. I will win. You? -Alex Subect: Re. TG Alex, I will be having my turkey (there ill be one, but it will be somewhat lost among the pumpkin fettuccine, sausage-stuffed artichokes, garlic with green beans, and at least four lasagnas, not to mention the sweet potato cannoli and chocolate ricotta pie) with at least forty members of my close family, most of whom will spend the entire meal screaming at each other. Some will actually be fighting, probably over football. I am hoping to be seated with the adults. It's not a sure thing. What's Martha's Vineyard like? I hear it's gorgeous. I hear it's favored by presidential types, past and present. -Ella Subject: Can I Have TG with You? Please??? There's a 6a.m. flight off the island. I can be back in Philadelphia by noon. I've never had Thanksgiving with more than four or five other people. Only child of two only children. My grandmother usually hosts dinner at the Hunt Club. She doesn't like turkey. Last year we had Scottish salmon. I like salmon,but... The Vineyard is pretty great. The house we're staying in is in Chilmark, which, if you weren't so woefully ignorant of defunct television, is the birthplace of Fox Mulder. I can see the Menemsha fishing fleet out my window. Ever heard of Menemsha Blues? I should bring you a T-shirt. Everyone has Black Dogs; I prefer a good fish on the chest. (Q. What do you call a fish with no eyes? A. Fish.) We went out on a boat this afternoon and actually saw a humpback whale. See pics below. That fuzzy gray lump in the bumpy gray water is a fin. A photographer I am not. Apparently, they're usually gone by now, heading for the Caribbean. It's way too cold to swim, but amazing in the summer. I swear I got bumped by a sea turtle here last July 4, but no one believes me. Any chance of saving me a cannoli? -A

The night before, Um-Nadia came over with her small wooden box stuffed with handwritten recipes, dishes Um-Nadia hadn't prepared or eaten in the thirty-five years since she and Mireille had left Lebanon. Some were recipes for simple, elegant dishes of rice pilafs and roasted meats, others were more exotic dishes of steamed whole pigeons and couscous or braised lambs' brains in broth. And they discussed ingredients and techniques until late in the night. Um-Nadia eventually fell asleep on the hard couch in the living room, while Sirine's uncle dozed across from her in his armchair. But Sirine stayed up all night, checking recipes, chopping, and preparing. She looked up Iraqi dishes, trying to find the childhood foods that she'd heard Han speak of, the sfeehas- savory pies stuffed with meat and spinach- and round mensaf trays piled with lamb and rice and yogurt sauce with onions, and for dessert, tender ma'mul cookies that dissolve in the mouth. She stuffed the turkey with rice, onions, cinnamon, and ground lamb. Now there are pans of sautéed greens with bittersweet vinegar, and lentils with tomato, onion, and garlic on the stove, as well as maple-glazed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and pumpkin soufflé.

He was twice her weight in muscle and doubly strong. They still fit as if made for each other. She hugged him close. He buried his face in her hair. Her neck. Breathed in her scent. Aroused woman and feminine musk. They moved together. Uninhibited and indulgent. Power and pleasure. He thrust, and she throbbed. She arched against him. He strained against her. A sensation hit him that he hadn't expected. A sense of oneness settled in his soul. His rhythmic pace coaxed her, drove her higher. They climbed fast and were suddenly there. They came undone. Both stiffening. Both shattering. Both boneless. Mindless. Replete.

Pumpkin Sugar Cookies Sugar Cookies just got better with a little pumpkin! This recipe creates soft, chewy, lightly spicy glazed pumpkin sugar cookies that are perfect for Fall! Ingredients: 1/2 cup softened butter 1/2 cup vegetable oil 1/2 cup pumpkin puree {canned pumpkin} 1 cup granulated sugar 1/2 cup powdered sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla 2 large eggs 4 cups all purpose flour 1/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg For the glaze topping: 3 cups powdered sugar 4 tablespoons water 1/4 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice Instructions Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or silicone baking mat and set aside. In a large bowl, stir butter, oil, pumpkin, sugars, vanilla and eggs together until incorporated and smooth. Slowly mix in all dry ingredients until completely incorporated. Scoop onto prepared baking sheet using 1 1/2 tablespoon scoop and flatten to 1/2 inch thick using the bottom of a glass. If the dough is sticking to the glass, press the bottom of the glass in granulated sugar before flattening. Bake 8-9 minutes. While cookies bake, stir all ingredients together for glaze until smooth. Once cookies are finished baking, cool 3 minutes on baking sheet before transferring to cooling rack. Spread 1 1/2 teaspoons glaze over each warm cookie. Let glaze harden 2-3 hours before serving. OR eat them warm with lots of runny glaze.

The long year passed slowly. Then one day, as October winds blew golden leaves around the farm, Autumn heard his mother say that even though her son was gone she would bake a pumpkin pie for Halloween. And of course she would need a pumpkin. At last an idea came to Autumn. If he could just get his mother to the barn and up to the loft she would find the magic pumpkin. Autumn began to pull at his mother’s apron. “What’s wrong with you today?” cried his mother. “I have many things to do and I have no time for playing.” But Autumn kept pulling on her apron until she was out of the house and in the barnyard. Then he ran into the barn, barking louder than he ever had. His mother followed him into the barn, where it was so dark she could not see the little dog. “Now where have you gone?” she cried. Autumn began barking again and it seemed to come from above her. She looked up and dimly saw Autumn at the top of the loft ladder, barking wildly. “What are you carrying on about up there? There’s nothing up in that old loft.” But Autumn did not stop barking. “All right, all right, I’ll come up and take a look,” she said as she began to climb the ladder. When she got to the top, the morning light lit up the corner of the loft where Autumn, smiling as much as a dog can smile, stood next to a very large pumpkin. It was one of the largest pumpkin she had ever seen. “Now, how did this pumpkin get up here?” Of course there was no one there to answer her question except Autumn and he could not talk. So she decided to use the pumpkin for the pie she planned to bake. She pulled at it and rolled it, and finally after a great effort she managed to get the magic pumpkin down the ladder and into the kitchen, where Autumn ran barking around the table. “Calm down, Autumn, and let me get to work on this pie.” As she was about to cut the stem from the pumpkin, she thought of the days when her husband carved the jack-o’-lantern for Angus. “Well, maybe I’ll just do the same.” She went to Angus’s room and found one of his old drawings. She traced a jack-o’-lantern face onto the pumpkin. Then, taking a large kitchen knife, she cut into the pumpkin. When only one eye was carved, there were streams of light. And when she carved the nose, and the smiling mouth, great shafts of light like sunbeams filled the room. Again Autumn began to bark. But when she turned to quiet him, there, standing in the wonderful light, was her son.

When you were dying, Edward quickly discovered, people would let you do pretty much whatever you wanted. So he made some new unofficial decrees: 1. The king was allowed to sleep in as long as he wished. 2. The king no longer had to wear seven layers of elaborate, jewel-encrusted clothing. Or silly hats with feathers. Or pants that resembled pumpkins. Or tights. From now on, unless it was a special occasion, he was fine in just a simple shirt and trousers. 3. Dessert was to be served first. Blackberry pie, preferably. With whipped cream. 4. The king would no longer be taking part in any more dreary studies. His fine tutors had filled his head with enough history, politics and philosophy to last him two lifetimes, and as he was unlikely to get even half of one lifetime, there was no need for study. No more lessons, he decided. No more books. No more tutors' dirty looks. 5. The king was now going to reside in the top of the southeast turret, where he could sit in the window ledge and gaze out at the river for as long as he liked. 6. No one at court would be allowed to say the following words or phrases: affliction, illness, malady, sickness, disease, disorder, ailment, infirmity, convalescence, indisposition, malaise, plight, plague, poor health, failing health, what's going around, or your condition. Most of all, no one was allowed to say the word dying. And finally (and perhaps most importantly, for the sake of our story) 7. Dogs would now be allowed inside the palace. More specifically, his dog.

He gently tugged her panties to the side and, watching her watch him, delivered a kiss that was almost as hot as the big ball of fire raging between them. "God, don't stop," she moaned, and, man of big words, he did not. Using his tongue, his teeth, teasing and tempting, he set a delicious pace that had her pressing against him. Harder and faster, he launched an all-out attack until breathing became nonexistent. He got her body so primed it was humming and, in an embarrassing amount of time, he had her careening toward the finish line. The finish line was good. The finish line was great. She hadn't crossed that line in a really, really, really long time. It almost pained her to stop, but Mila was a team player and determined that, when those champagne bottles exploded, they'd fly high together. "Come here." She fisted her hand in his shirt, yanking him forward and his shirt up and over his head. She made quick work of his belt and jeans, then slid her hands down the front to his--- my word, indeed. "Mi," he breathed, so she did it again, only this time beneath his BVDs. Pushing his jeans around his ankles with one hand, she kept up a steady pace with the other. "Slow down," he groaned, but she noticed he didn't make a move to stop her, instead pushing harder into her palm. "One more stroke, and it's game over, Buttercup. I've waited too long to have it end in three seconds." She gave a little squeeze. "Big words go both ways." Okay, more than a little squeeze, but he didn't seem to mind. His eyes darkened. His expression dazed.

After several hours of preparing, cooking, eating, and laughing together, the kitchen was now lit by the glow of candlelight, and the entire house filled with the glorious aroma of freshly roasted heritage turkey. While Dylan had readied the bird with a few sprigs of chopped rosemary, ground black peppercorn, and a splash of maple syrup, Grace and Carter gathered fall beans and bush squash and a few little sugar pie pumpkins, and cooked the vegetables along with the sweet corn that Carter had brought home.

My first thought isn't that I'm gay or that Freddie is a boy or that he's one of my best friends. His lips are lips. They're soft and they taste like pumpkin pie and whiskey.

Nicole craved sweets. Her list included peach pie, rhubarb pie, and pumpkin pie, all of which would be on hand the following week for the Fourth of July cookout on the bluff, so she knew Quinnie cooks would have their recipe cards nearby. In addition to pies, she wanted recipes for blueberry cobbler, apple crisp, molasses Indian pudding, Isobel Skane's chocolate almond candy, and, of course, Melissa Parker's marble macadamia brownies.

The smell of peppery warm cheese and thick, yeasty grilled bread was beginning to fill the air. She would give the sandwich to Della Lee when she got home, and while Della Lee ate the sandwich Josey would eat oatmeal pies and candy corn and packets of salty pumpkin seeds from her closet.

The sweet smell of baking crust rolled under her nose from the Four-and-Twenty Blackbird Pie Shop, though Cedar knew for a fact that the pies were made from pumpkin, apple, or pomegranate meringue and not birds. If you bought a pie, stuck in your thumb, and pulled out a plum, you won a tinsel crown.

Pie Spice, Pumpkin or Apple YIELDS ENOUGH FOR ONE 9-INCH PIE ½ teaspoon cinnamon ¼ teaspoon nutmeg ¼ teaspoon ground cloves 1/ 8 teaspoon allspice 1/ 8 teaspoon cardamom Combine spices.

Granny’s Granola Bars Serves: 10 bars 2 ripe bananas 1 Granny Smith apple, chopped into small pieces 1 cup raisins 1 cup chopped walnuts ½ cup raw sunflower seeds ¼ cup unhulled sesame seeds 1 teaspoon cinnamon or pumpkin pie spice 2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats Preheat the oven to 300˚F. Mash bananas to a soft consistency. Add remaining ingredients. Add a small amount of nondairy milk if needed to ease stirring. Lightly oil a 9 × 9-inch baking pan or glass dish. Pour mixture into baking dish and press to firm consistency. Bake mixture for 40 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool. Cut into bars. Wrap with aluminum foil and place in the fridge or freezer. PER SERVING: CALORIES 272; PROTEIN 7g; CARBOHYDRATE 34g; TOTAL FAT 14g; SATURATED FAT 1.5g; SODIUM 3mg; FIBER 5g; BETA-CAROTENE 15mcg; VITAMIN C 4mg; CALCIUM 63mg; IRON 5.6mg; FOLATE 37mcg; MAGNESIUM 66mg; ZINC 1mg; SELENIUM 6mcg

Mom pointed to an empty section of the village, “Build the mine right there. And Make it pretty! Please.” “Blech,” Elijah said, “We don’t do pretty.”  “Make it handsome then,” Mom said.  Ethan rolled his eyes. “That sounded an awful lot like a Dad joke.”  “Well, it was a Mom joke, because I said it. Now, get to work. I’ll deliver you fresh pumpkin pie.”  “OOOH PIE!” the Double-Es shouted and pulled out shovels to dig.  “Let’s see, who’s next?” Mom said to herself. “Oh, I know!” She looked around the village, and finally found Alex, the illager tool smith as he was wandering around. “Alex!” She waved at him. The illager stopped and smiled, greeting her.  “Hello, Mrs. Smith, how are you?” “I’m good, but what are you doing? You look a little lost.” Mom eyed him.  Alex sighed. “It’s a strange thing. I was finally settling in, back at the other village, then we had to pick up and go. I don’t really know what my place is here. There are plenty of other illagers who can help with the defenses. Plus, I left my smithing table back in the other village. I feel useless.

We stuck with the traditional Äpple Munk and the favorite munkhål, but we also added a seasonal one I'd been working on in Mrs. Bixler's room during this dramatic lull in school-apple leftovers. I'd perfected a pumpkin cream cheese filling to go with a cinnamon sugar coating. It was like if pumpkin pie and donuts had a baby, and that baby turned out to be the Chosen One from the prophecy. Pumpamunk.

I breathe in the fresh summer air as I pass a table covered with all sorts of cakes---Victorian sponge, Madeira, Battenberg, lemon drizzle. Again my mind drifts to my childhood, this time to the Michigan State Fair, which my family would visit at the end of every summer. It had all sorts of contests---pie eating, hog calling, watermelon seed spitting (Stevie's favorite)---but the cake competition was my favorite challenge of all. Every year I'd eye the confections longingly: the fluffy coconut cakes, the fudge chocolate towers filled with gooey caramel or silky buttercream, the cinnamon-laced Bundts topped with buttery streusel. The competition was divided into adult and youth categories, and when I turned twelve, I decided to enter a recipe for chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter buttercream and peanut brittle. My mom was a little befuddled by my participation (her idea of baking involved Duncan Hines and canned, shelf-stable frosting, preferably in a blinding shade of neon), but she rode along with my dad, Stevie, and me as we carted two-dozen cupcakes to the fairgrounds in Novi. The competition was steep---pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, German chocolate cupcakes, zucchini cupcakes with lemon buttercream---but my entry outshone them all, and I ended up taking home the blue ribbon, along with a gift certificate to King Arthur Flour.

Excuse me, Judgey McJudgerson, but I have pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes. That’ll be two vegetables on my plate.

Peter didn’t need to know the reason he called Lucinda pumpkin, his favourite type of pie. Her hatred of the fruit only played in his favour. He loved how her irritation caused her to blush, highlighting the cluster of freckles across her nose.

It was madness. Delightful, apple-pie scented madness.

How was a man supposed to concentrate on the pros and cons of a pie-eating contest when the woman next to him insisted on being so adorable? It was inconvenient really.

About 94 percent of Americans prepare and serve turkey at home and most people stick to a traditional menu for the main meal: turkey with cranberry sauce, mashed white potatoes with giblet gravy, candied sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows, a cooked green vegetable dish, relishes, and a pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert.

1 cup milk (more or less, depending on how thick you like your oatmeal) ½ cup quick-cook rolled oats ¼ cup canned pumpkin puree ¼ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice ¼ teaspoon cinnamon ¼ teaspoon salt ½ banana, sliced ¼ cup walnuts, chopped 2 tablespoons maple syrup Whipped cream (optional) Bring the milk to a boil in a saucepan. Add the oats, then stir in the pumpkin, spices, and salt. Cook, stirring constantly, about 2 minutes (or as indicated by the package directions on the rolled oats). Pour the oatmeal into a bowl and add sliced banana, walnuts, maple syrup, and whipped cream (if desired).

Memoirists collect experiences in an attempt to capture the fluttery thing we call life. ---from Blog-"Readers, Writers and Pumpkin Pie

Pumpkin Pie to Die For My landlord looked worse for wear But the greedy bitch couldn't less care. Antiquated, dilapidated and moth-eaten, She kept on tickin' despite time's beatin'. Antediluvian, menopausal and off the pill, Senescent, unpleasant and over the hill. Frazzled, frayed and full of holes, Tattered, shredded like the Dead Sea Scrolls. That creaky fossil just wouldn't die, She'd ask me for the rent and wouldn't repent, So I brained her with a 9-iron And made pumpkin pie.

Toddler Muffins   Ingredients required   1 cup flour (all-purpose flour) 2 eggs (beaten) 2 large bananas (mashed) 2 carrots (grated) 1/2 cup brown sugar 1/2 cup butter (softened) 1/2 cup oat bran 4.5 ounce baby food squash 1 tsp pumpkin pie spice 1 tsp baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt   Method   Set your oven at 375°F - preheat. In a large bowl, whisk together brown sugar and butter. Add to the above - squash, eggs, carrots, mashed bananas,

Pumpkin pie hands?! No, no, my dream wasn't THAT crazy.

What are you doing behind my cornstalks? There was to be no pumpkin-pie-eating for you,” said the angry voice of the spirit that lived in the scarecrow. Shaking with fear, Angus turned to face the scarecrow, and the pie fell to the earth. “I…I was hungry and didn’t think Mom would mind,” said Angus. But Angus’s excuse only made the spirit angrier, and he shouted at Angus. “You were told to go to bed and to eat no pie.” And swinging the great scarf he wore like long arms flapping in the wind, the scarecrow turned Angus into a little dog. “Because you now have fur the color of fallen leaves, you will be called Autumn,” the scarecrow said as he made another swirl of his great scarf. “And because you stole and ate your mother’s pie, every night you will climb the ladder to the barn loft and guard a magic pumpkin until a forgiving soul carves it and releases the power to change you back to a boy.” The scarecrow spirit spoke in a voice as chilling as the cold which ruffled the cornstalks standing beneath him. As Autumn ran back to the farm he tried to think of a way to get someone up to the loft to carve the magic pumpkin. But thinking is not easy when you have just been changed into dog. So no ideas came to him. Great sadness now fell over the farm and the daily tasks were done with little joy. “Maybe Angus just ran away,” Angus’s mother said in a voice full of sorrow. “Or maybe he’s been taken over the fields by an angry spirit,” said his father. “Well, at least we have him,” the mother said, pointing to the playful little dog that had suddenly come to the farm and during the day always kept her company. But when evening came Autumn slipped away and sadly climbed the steep ladder to the barn loft. There he lay with his head next to the magic pumpkin, guarding it through the night. Sometimes he thought he could almost hear sounds from deep within the pumpkin. As if messages from the sun and the moon somehow entered through the pumpkin’s stem to rest among the silent seeds.

I figured if evolution did its job, spinach salad would taste like pumpkin pie and pumpkin pie would taste like spinach salad. Sadly, it ain’t so; so evolution must have dropped the ball somehow. (If you don't buy Darwin, then you'd have to agree this whole set up speaks volumes about God's sense of humor.) I

teaspoon and a half of chili powder; -A teaspoon and a half of pumpkin pie spice; -A teaspoon of minced garlic; -Butter, 2 tablespoons; -Chicken bouillon cubes, 2 pieces; -Ground ginger, 2 teaspoons; -Orange juice, 2 tablespoons; -Pumpkin puree, 2 14-ounce cans; and -Water, 2 cups.

CREAMY PUMPKIN PIE SMOOTHIE › BANANA, PEAR, PUMPKIN PUREE, GINGER SERVES 4 ► PER SERVING 110 CALORIES | 1.5 G FAT | 2 G PROTEIN | 23 G CARBOHYDRATES | 5 G FIBER | 13 G SUGAR | 80% DV VITAMIN A | 10% DV VITAMIN D | 20% DV VITAMIN E 1½ cups unsweetened almond milk 2 frozen bananas 1 Bartlett pear, cored ½ cup pumpkin puree 1 tablespoon grated ginger ¼ teaspoon pumpkin spice 1 cup ice Add ingredients into a blender and blend until smooth. Pumpkin pie in a glass? Yum! With vitamins A, B3, B5, B6, and C; potassium; and fiber, how can you say no to all of these bennies with each sip? Drink to your

You can buy canned pumpkin puree or cut up a fresh pumpkin into chunks, steam it until it is tender, and puree the f*ck out of it until you have 1 1/2 cups. If you try to make this chili with pumpkin pie filling, don't complain about how f*cked up it tastes. You did that dumb sh*t yourself.

Time slowed. Nikki could feel every throb of her pulse, every crackle of her nerves as Sef swept away reality with the crush of his lips. His tongue was a flame darting against her own, his breath a billowing gust of incense that filled her nostrils and scorched her lungs. He was spice and cedar, whiskey and warm pumpkin pie. He was the dunes of Egypt and the rising sun, the breeze off the Nile, and the jackals prowling beneath the moon.

one of the healthy vegetable with different color, it come in by a lot of fun and beautiful fall season. Gardening, seasons, life, and what people doing with pumpkin. Family can have a lot of fun and enjoy their time (and at the same time learn a lot of new things)

Q: Why couldn’t the Pilgrims tell secrets on their farms? A: The corn had ears! Q: Why is the number ten scared on Thanksgiving? A: Because seven ate (eight) nine! Q: When does Dracula eat turkey? A: At Fangsgiving! Q: Name two things you can’t eat for breakfast on Thanksgiving. A: Lunch and dinner. Q: Why can turkeys eat only a few bites at Thanksgiving? A: Because they are so stuffed. Q: What is the best thing to put into a pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving? A: Your teeth! HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

The whole family sang: "Over the river and through the woods, now grandmother's cap I spy! Hurray for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!" "But Gran doesn't have a cap," said Sister. "She has a scarf." "Well, I spy it anyway--through the kitchen window," said Brother.

You think you know everything about Thanksgiving, don’t you? …How the Native Americans saved the Pilgrims from starving… How the Pilgrims held a big feast to celebrate and say thank you: turkey, pumpkin pie, cranberries--the works. Well, listen up. I have a news flash… WE ALMOST LOST…THANKSGIVING! Didn’t know that, did you? It’s true. Way, way back, when skirts were long and hats were tall, Thanksgiving was fading away. Sure, the folks up in New England celebrated it. They’d roast a turkey and invite the relatives when the harvest came in. But not in the South, not in the West, not even in the Middle Atlantic states. More and more, people ignored the holiday. Thanksgiving was in trouble. It needed… A SUPERHERO!

The rehearsals went from bad to worse. “When the Pilgrims and Indians decided to celebrate their friendship,” said Francine, “they began to hunt for a turkey.” “We cooked beans and pumpkin pies,” whispered Sue Ellen. “And the Pilgrim men went off to hunt for a turkey.” “We made corn bread and picked cranberries,” said Muffy. “Oops! And the Indian braves went on their own turkey hunt.” Then it was time for Francine to present the turkey. “When the Indians and Pilgrims finally found a turkey,” she began, “there was great rejoicing. Today when we think of Thanksgiving, we think of turkey.” She glared at Arthur. “Don’t worry,” Arthur promised. “I told you I’d find a turkey in time.” As a last resort Arthur decided to rent a turkey. But that wasn’t such a good idea. “If you don’t get a turkey by tomorrow’s performance,” said Francine, “I quit.” Everyone agreed. No turkey--no play.

The Bears waited nervously while the judges studied, measured, and weighed, and then studied, measured, and weighed some more. Finally, they made their announcement: “THE FIRST-PRIZE WINNER--AND STILL CHAMPION…” Of course, that meant Farmer Ben had won. It was close--it turned out that Ben’s Monster was just a little bigger, rounder, and oranger than Papa’s Giant. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Giant didn’t even come in second. A beautiful pumpkin grown by Miz McGrizz won second prize. The Giant came in third. Papa and the cubs were crushed…crushed and very quiet as they pushed their third-prize winner home. It wasn’t until they reached the crest of a hill that overlooked Bear Country that Mama decided to have her say. “I know you’re disappointed. But third prize is nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, Thanksgiving isn’t about contests and prizes. It’s about giving thanks. And it seems to me that we have a lot of be thankful for.” Perhaps it was Mama’s lecture, or maybe it was how beautiful Bear Country looked in the sunset’s rosy glow. But whatever the reason, Papa and the cubs began to understand what Mama was talking about. Even more so on Thanksgiving Day. After the Bears gave thanks for the wonderful meal they were about to enjoy, Sister Bear gave her own special thanks. “I’m thankful,” she said, “that we didn’twin first prize: if we had, The Giant would be on display in front of City Hall instead of being part of the yummy pies we’re going to have for dessert!” As the laughter faded and the Bears thought about the blessings of family, home, friends, and neighbors, they knew deep down in their hearts that there was no question about it--indeed they did have a great deal to be thankful for.

The dark came down on All Hallows’ Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence. There is no more perfect stillness than the solitude in the heart of a snowstorm. This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold where a million stars burn bright and close, to the gray-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow. I took one of Bree’s matches from its box and lit it, thrilling to the tiny leap of instant flame, and bent to put it to the kindling. Snow was falling, and winter had come; the season of fire. Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger. The smell of roasting pumpkins was thick and sweet in the air. Having ruled the night with fire, the jack-o’-lanterns went now to a more peaceful fate as pies and compost, to join the gentle rest of the earth before renewal. I had turned the earth in my garden the day before, planting the winter seeds to sleep and swell, to dream their buried birth. Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence. Waking to the shock of frozen lakes under waning moonlight and the cold sun burning low and blue in the branches of the ice-cased trees, returning from our brief and necessary labors to food and story, to the warmth of firelight in the dark. Around a fire, in the dark, all truths can be told, and heard, in safety. I pulled on my woolen stockings, thick petticoats, my warmest shawl, and went down to poke up the kitchen fire. I stood watching wisps of steam rise from the fragrant cauldron, and felt myself turn inward. The world could go away, and we would heal.

managed to snag the last available table and all three ordered the special with sweet tea to drink. “It’s like Thanksgiving,” Shiloh said. “Not for me. Thanksgiving was working an extra shift so the folks with kids could be home for the day. Christmas was the same,” Bonnie said. Abby shrugged. “The army served turkey and dressing on the holidays. It wasn’t what Mama made, but it tasted pretty damn good.” Since it was a special and only had to be dipped up and served, they weren’t long getting their meal. Abby shut her eyes on the first bite and made appreciative noises. “This is so good. I may eat here every Sunday.” “And break Cooper’s heart?” Bonnie asked. “Hey, now! One night of drinking together does not make us all bosom buddies or BFFs or whatever the hell it’s called these days.” Abby waved at the waitress, who came right over. “I want this plate all over again,” she said. “Did you remember that we do have pie for dessert?” the waitress asked. “Yes, I’ll have two pieces, whipped cream on both. What about you, Shiloh?” She blushed. “I shouldn’t, but . . . yes, and go away before I change my mind.” “Bonnie?” Abby asked. Bonnie shook her head. “Just an extra piece of pie will do me.” “So that’s two more specials and five pieces of pie, right?” the waitress asked. “You got it,” Abby said. “I’m having ice cream when we finish with hair and nails. You two are going to be moaning and groaning about still being too full,” Bonnie said. “Not me. By the middle of the afternoon I’ll be ready for ice cream,” Abby said. “My God, how do you stay so small?” Shiloh asked. “Damn fine genes. Mama wasn’t a big person.” “Well, my granny was as wide as she was tall and every bite of food I eat goes straight to my thighs and butt,” Shiloh said. “But after that wicked, evil stuff last night, I’m starving.” “It burned all the calories right out of your body,” Abby said. “Anything you eat today doesn’t even count.” “You are full of crap,” Shiloh leaned forward and whispered. The waitress returned with more plates of food and slices of pumpkin pie with whipped cream, taking the dirty dishes back away with her. Bonnie picked up the clean fork on the pie plate and cut a bite-size piece off. “Oh. My. God! This is delicious. Y’all can eat Cooper’s cookin’. I’m not the one kissin’ on him, so I don’t give a shit if I hurt his little feelin’s or not. I’m comin’ here for pumpkin pie next Sunday if I have to walk.” “If Cooper doesn’t want to cook, maybe we can all come back here with him and Rusty next Sunday,” Abby said. “And if he does?” Shiloh asked. “Then I’m eating a steak and you can borrow my truck, Bonnie. I’d hate to see you walk that far. You’d be too tired to take care of the milkin’ the next day,” Abby said. “And you don’t know how to milk a cow, do you?” Bonnie’s blue eyes danced when she joked. Abby took a deep breath and told the truth. “No, I don’t, and I don’t like chickens.” “Well, I hate hogs,” Shiloh admitted. “And I can’t milk a cow, either.” “Looks like it might take all three of us to run that ranch after all.” Bonnie grinned. The waitress refilled their tea glasses. “Y’all must be the Malloy sisters. I heard you’d come to the canyon. Ezra used to come in here pretty often for our Sunday special and he always took an extra order home with him. Y’all sound like him when you talk. You all from Texas?” “Galveston,” Abby said. “Arkansas, but I lived in Texas until I graduated high school,” Shiloh said. The waitress looked at Bonnie. “Kentucky after leavin’ Texas.” “I knew I heard the good old Texas drawl in your voices,” the waitress said as she walked away. “Wonder how much she won on that pot?” Abby whispered. Shiloh had been studying her ragged nails but she looked up.

Who’s that?” she asked Farmer Ben. Ben gave one look and muttered, “Uh-oh. It’s Ed Hooper. I’m almost afraid to ask him what he wants…” In his three-piece suit and expensive hat, Hooper came stepping across the pasture, being very careful to avoid the cow pies. When he reached the pumpkin patch, he walked right up to Farmer Ben and held out his hand. Ben made no move to shake it. “As you wish, Ben,” said Hooper, lowering his hand. “Five, four, three, two, one, zero!” “What’s that?” said Ben. “You going into the rocket-ship business?” Hooper laughed. “No, Ben,” he said. “That’s the countdown for the number of grocery stores left in Beartown. The last one just closed down for good.” “For your good, maybe,” Ben sneered. “Not for mine.

In his three-piece suit and expensive hat, Hooper came stepping across the pasture, being very careful to avoid the cow pies. When he reached the pumpkin patch, he walked right up to Farmer Ben and held out his hand. Ben made no move to shake it. “As you wish, Ben,” said Hooper, lowering his hand. “Five, four, three, two, one, zero!” “What’s that?” said Ben. “You going into the rocket-ship business?

Lydia Maria Child Over the river and through the wood To Grandmother’s house we go. The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through white and drifted snow. Over the river and through the wood Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go. Over the river and through the wood To have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, Ting-a-ling-ling! Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple gray! Spring over the ground Like a hunting hound, For this is Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go Extremely slow~ It is so hard to wait! Over the river and through the wood~ Now Grandmother’s cap I spy! Hurrah for fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

The enticing odor of French onion soup, only implied in her room, rose full force from the stove and embraced her in a warm hug. Grape reached for the ladle, desperate for a taste. “Do you mind going to get him?” Ugh. She put the ladle down and trudged back upstairs. If it was her brother’s sole mission in life to spoil even the little joys Grape had left, then he was succeeding. “Try not stomping on every step,” her mother called, her voice as pleasant as pumpkin pie. Grape rolled her eyes. She stomped harder on the next step to emphasize her independence and then tread softly up the staircase, because she was no fool.

A brand new pie is waiting for me each night after work, as if he knows he hit his stride and he is going to exploit that knowledge. Fudge pie, pumpkin, apple, pecan, chocolate, strawberry, rhubarb, lemon, peach... I go through a week of pies, then two. I dream about our pretty baby, and end up sobbing over Mama every time I take a shower. Why can't things be right? Like books or movies. Why can't things just ever, once, be right? That afternoon, I find the pinnacle of pies: a peanut butter Reese's one. I'm glad I've got a reason for the growing belly. Truthfully, I think it's mostly pie.

She decided to make salmon baked in a touch of olive oil, topped with pine nuts, and served over spinach flash-fried in the salmon-and-olive-oil drippings. She added brown rice that she had slow-boiled with the herb hawthorn. Just as she finished, Cordelia arrived with a woman she had found standing in the sidewalk out front. "My husband has high blood pressure," she explained, negotiating the stairs down into Portia's apartment with care. "He's never happy with anything I make for supper, so I should tell you that you probably don't have anything that will work for me." Cordelia took a look at the meal, raised an eyebrow at Portia, and then turned to the woman. "This is the perfect meal for your husband's high blood pressure. Fish oil, nuts, hawthorn, whole grains." Next, a pumpkin pie went to a woman who couldn't sleep. "Pie?" she asked in a doubtful tone. "Pumpkin," Portia clarified, "is good for insomnia." An apricot crumble spiced with cloves and topped with oats and brown sugar went to a woman drawn with stress. Then a man walked through the door, shoulders slumped. Cordelia and Olivia eyed him for a second. "I know the feeling," Olivia said, and fetched him a half gallon of the celery and cabbage soup Portia had found herself preparing earlier. The man peered into the container, grew a tad queasier, and said, "No thanks." "Do you or don't you have a hangover?" Olivia demanded, then drew a breath. "Really," she added more kindly. "Eat this and you'll feel better." He came back the next day for more. "Cabbage is no cure for drinking too much," Cordelia told him. He just shrugged and slapped down his money for two quarts of soup instead of one.

A mist, slow and steady filled his room until it hovered over him.

Within my house is the sickening sweet smell of nutmeg and spice. Upon a grave you’ll dance as soon as you’ve eaten a slice. Scream and run as fast as you can. There is no escaping The Pumpkin Pie Man. Take another and eat your fill. It's wormy and cold and your blood will spill.

Southerners mostly regarded pumpkin pies as exotic imports from the North.

Who would have believed that something as simple as pumpkin pie could bring together and spark a lifelong friendship between a living human woman and a ghost man named Kai?

Genevieve Sadler recalled young men from the Ozark Mountains politely refusing her unfamiliar pumpkin pie but eagerly eating fried pies made from dried peaches.