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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

You want another one? What about pumpkin? How ’bout it, Liv? You wanna be my pumpkin pie?” “You’re too much.” I barely manage an eye roll, and Carter swallows my breathy laugh with his mouth. “I think you wanna be my pumpkin.” “I wanna be your anything.

all I can think about is how close their pumpkins are to my pie.

Well, I’m always here if you need to talk, my little loganberry pie.

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

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.

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.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I reach down into the pastry case, pick up the pecan pie, and … Throw it at Jack’s face. We stand there, both of us in shocked silence. The chatter in Sheva’s line of customers instantly stops, as do the voices in the rest of the shop. Even the music is quiet, between songs.

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.

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.

Maple Bacon Bread Pudding Nonstick baking spray 1 pound bacon Maple sugar or brown sugar, to coat bacon slices 1 1⁄2 cups cream 1⁄2 cup pure maple syrup 1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice Pinch of salt 6 eggs 8 slices brioche or challah bread Preheat the oven to 375° F. Coat a 9-inch round or oval pan with baking spray. Dredge bacon slices in maple or brown sugar. Bake the bacon on a sheet tray between two pieces of parchment paper until crispy, 15 to 20 minutes. Then crumble the bacon. Mix the cream, maple syrup, pumpkin pie spice, salt and eggs. Line the pan with the bread and pour the egg mixture over it. Sprinkle with bacon crumbles. Cover and refrigerate a couple of hours or overnight. Then bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until eggs are set. Serve with warm syrup.

Big words," she said in mock fear. "I'm a big guy." He didn't stop until reaching the rung just below her, his body caging her in and showing her just how big he was. She looked at him over her shoulder, and he realized he could look into those beautiful brown eyes forever. "Is this where you show me your moves?" "One of them." He captured her lips in a kiss that ended with her moaning. "The rest will be added to my list, since none of them can be fully appreciated while balancing on a ladder." "You have a list?" "Started it after our first meeting," he said, sliding his hands over hers to take the string of lights, loving how she shivered at the simple contact. "It's getting pretty big." She leaned back against him. "Your list or..." "Both," he whispered in her ear, then gave her ass a playful swat. "Now climb on up so we can get these hung and move on to dinner." "And the list." "Definitely the list.

She turned around and found him inches away. She felt time slow down. Awareness nuzzled. Arousal stirred. Impressions surfaced. He seemed to wrap around her, shift into her, and embrace her without touching, in a mystifying oneness. Feelings swelled, and untried sensations were exchanged between them. She'd never felt anything like it. His solidness and strength stroked her physically. She wanted to touch him, to press her palms over his chest, to feel his heart pulse beneath her fingers.

Promptly, I order a box filled with the doughnuts I know she loves, every autumn recipe rebelling against the Christmas flavors that shouldered their way in the day after Thanksgiving. No chocolate and peppermint or gingerbread and eggnog for Kate. She loves pumpkin pie and spiced apples, cinnamon and maple syrup, everything that reminds her of the grandeur of turning leaves, the cozy joy of starlit bonfires and sipping mugs of cider, the quiet beauty of waking up to a misty autumn morning.

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

Okinawa-Inspired Smoothie I’ve been experimenting with a recipe for a delectable bright-purple smoothie that tastes like you are drinking a pumpkin pie. The sweet potato gives it an especially silky-smooth texture. There are a lot more recipes to come in my forthcoming The How Not to Age Cookbook, but to whet your appetite:

Minnie’s Amazing Fruit Cake Serves 12 Juice of half an orange (about 2 tablespoons) Zest of 1 orange 2 tablespoons brandy (optional) 2¼ cups mixed dried fruit (combination of raisins, currants, and maraschino cherries—any dried fruit you like!) 1½ sticks unsalted butter, softened ½ stick (4 tablespoons) margarine, softened 1 cup packed light brown sugar 4 large free-range eggs, room temperature 1 cup self-rising flour ½ cup ground almonds 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice 1 cup chopped almonds (optional) Combine the orange juice, orange zest, and brandy, if using, in a mixing bowl. Add the dried fruit, cover the bowl, and soak overnight. Line the bottom of a deep 8-inch round cake pan with parchment paper, cut to fit, and lightly butter the bottom of the paper to make it stick, then butter and flour the sides of the cake pan. Preheat the oven to 320F (160C). In a large bowl, beat the butter, margarine, and sugar with an electric mixer at high speed until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at time and beat after each addition until well combined. Sift together the flour, ground almonds, cinnamon, and pumpkin pie spice. Add the flour mixture to the bowl and fold in until just combined. Add the soaked fruit and chopped almonds, if you are including them. Pour the mixture into the prepared cake pan. Bake for 1 hour and 15 minutes, and test with a toothpick or skewer. When it comes out clean, the cake is done. If not, return to the oven for 10 minutes and repeat. You may need to bake for up to 1 hour and 45 minutes, depending on your oven. If the top starts to burn before the middle is done, loosely cover the cake pan with foil. Enjoy the cake with family or friends, sharing your dreams and ambitions for the year ahead. Where would you like to be eating fruit cake this time next year?

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

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

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.

Over the river, and through the wood, To grandfather’s house we go; The horse knows the way, To carry the sleigh, Through the white and drifted snow. Over the river, and through the wood, To grandfather’s house away! We would not stop For doll or top, For ’t is Thanksgiving day. 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, With a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark, And children hark, As we go jingling by. Over the river, and through the wood, To have a first-rate play— Hear the bells ring Ting a ling ding, Hurra for Thanksgiving day! Over the river, and through the wood— No matter for winds that blow; Or if we get The sleigh upset, Into a bank of snow. Over the river, and through the wood, To see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, And play snow-ball, And stay as long as we can. Over the river, and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple grey! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting hound! For ’t is Thanksgiving day! Over the river, and through the wood, And straight through the barn-yard gate; We seem to go Extremely slow, It is so hard to wait. Over the river, and through the wood— Old Jowler hears our bells; He shakes his pow, With a loud bow wow, And thus the news he tells. Over the river, and through the wood— When grandmother sees us come, She will say, Oh dear, The children are here, Bring a pie for every one. Over the river, and through the wood— Now grandmother’s cap I spy! Hurra for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurra for the pumpkin pie!

I rented out everything but a few T-shirts. You can choose between orange shirts designed with either I Don't Do Costumes, Now Step Aside, You're Standing on My Invisible Dog, or If One Door Closes and Another One Opens, Start Worrying, 'Cause Your House Is Probably Haunted." "That's it?" She pursed her lips. "There is one more..." "I'll wear it." "Only if you're absolutely sure." "I'm sure." Halloweener was the most remembered costume at the party.

The Kopper Kettle had a New Englander's fish and chips special that couldn't be beat. The clam chowder was thick, creamy, and stuck to his ribs. The blueberry pie was homemade.

In the nine-to-twelve category: number twelve, traditional turkey dinner and cranberry pumpkin pie! Number forty-nine, caramel beef stew with vegetables and caramel apples! Number three, barbecued catfish and king cake! Number eighteen, Asian noodle stir-fry and vanilla soy cookies!

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

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

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?

Where are you looking now?" "At your mouth." "Look away." "Can't. You have very sexy lips." She went red in the face. Self-conscious. He was bold, blunt, and spoke his mind. She liked that about him. Emotion soared. Arousal slipped up on her. She wanted him in her life. He apparently wanted her too. His desire came in a kiss. Light and gentle and lasting no more than a heartbeat. Modest and restrained. Sensitive, yet sensationally hot. Memorable.

He liked sex. A lot. Nothing felt better than the hard vibration of a bike between his thighs unless it was the smooth, naked slide into a soft, wet woman.

Her outstretched fingers scraped down his side and sank inside his jeans. Her thumb hooked a belt loop. The force of her grip drew down the waistband by several inches. Her fingertips grazed the muscular curve of his hip. A commando-bare hip. His body heat stroked between her fingers, crept over her hand, and skittered up her arm. Her breasts tingled. She wished the sidewalk would open up and swallow her whole. Her wish was denied. Jake turned with a slowness that further unnerved her. He flexed his butt cheek and his voice was deep-husky when he asked, "What's up, Peep? Are you scratching my back, picking my pocket, or getting in my pants?

Steep steps, and the sway of her skirt couldn't be contained. Instead of side to side, it flounced front to back, flashing Jake from behind. She cringed. He chuckled, deep and admiring. "Sexy thigh-highs. Those blue bows along the seams do it for me." His compliment sent heat up and between her legs. Her composure slipped. The hoop skirt would be the death of her. She would never wear one again. Sheer will pushed her up the remainder of the stairs. Once on the landing, she struggled to turn and face him. The light overhead flickered and dimmed, needing a bulb replaced. Jake's face was shadowy, but she could make out his expression, equally intense and indulgent. She would have immediately taken to her room, but his gaze detained her. All dark heat and sinful appreciation. His face was hard cut. His mouth curved, wicked by design. Tension stretched between them. Nerves overcame her. She felt inept with this man.

Moist cake, fresh blueberries, and melt-in-the-mouth frosting. "Best ever." He understood her slow savoring and the licking of her lips. "I could eat blueberry butter cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner," she confessed. She tapped her fork on the plate, encouraging him. "There's plenty; have a second bite." He shook his head; she was his indulgence. All happy, uninhibited, and turned on by cake. "I enjoy dessert now and again," he conceded. "But I'm more of a meat-and-potato guy." "There's steak and eggs on our breakfast menu," she said. "Gram makes amazing home fries. Sliced potatoes, chopped onions, and sweet bell peppers cooked in bacon fat. Don't get me started on her buttermilk biscuits.

He stared at her now with an intensity that seemed to unsettle her. She accidentally frosted her chin. She grabbed a handful of napkins, dabbed at the smeared buttercream. "Look what you made me do," she accused him. His tongue pressed against his teeth. He felt a craving to lick the frosting from her lips. To nibble on her chin. To fully taste her. An urge he tamped down. "How's missing your mouth my fault?" he asked, amused. "You were staring at me." "Did I make you nervous?" "You looked... hungry." "I'm quite full, actually." Hannah was inexperienced. She was unaware that his hunger hadn't been for the cake; it had been for her.

She went to take his order. "What can I get for you?" she asked him. He set down his cup, crooked his finger for her to lean close. When she did, he whispered against her ear, "You, over easy." Bold and suggestive. Teasingly sexy.

What about breakfast in bed?" spoken low. Tomorrow was her day off. She could sleep in. Or sleep with Jake. "Still proposing over easy?" "My favorite position." He left her then. She stared after him, a man larger-than-life who wanted her. Sex would be phenomenal with him. The image of his big naked body in bed stole all thought and left her breathless.

He introduced her to him slowly. A hard man showing his soft side. A slight shift of his shoulders and he grasped her hips. She was a small woman. Delicately boned. Their thighs brushed and his sex pressed her belly, as their bodies became acquainted. She raised her hands between them. Skimming her fingers over the cut and contour of his muscles, then tracing the arrow of his chest hair down to his groin. He liked her hands on him. Tentative and appreciative. She squeezed his length. His throat constricted. He moaned. The moment was seamless, timeless. He took great pleasure in foreplay. Kissing her gently. Then again with thrusting intent. Mating with her mouth and mimicking sex.

His stomach gave a growl. Food crossed his mind. So did fooling around. The latter won. Without question. Hannah lifted her head, licked her lips. "Breakfast in bed?" He deftly eased her onto her back. Then rolled atop her. She yielded beneath him. So soft. So warm. So willing. "Love over easy, babe." "Double that order.

He made an immediate impression, biker tough. The men admired him. A sexual rush made women blush. He was a turn-on. There was a wildness to Jake that unsettled the ladies. A roughness that dared them to domesticate him. Other guys were equally tall, broad shouldered, and muscled. It was Jake's face that set him apart. Angular and strong boned. Alpha and masculine. His sharp gaze undressed and penetrated a woman's deepest thoughts. His cheekbones slashed to a single dimple, unshaved jaw. Wicked grin. His mouth promised midnight arousal and morning satisfaction.

The hoop-style petticoat swung above her knees. She flashed sheer white thigh-high stockings right up to the pretty blue bows. She swatted down her errant skirt. And nearly dropped the shepherd's crook. The triplets hadn't noticed the mishap, but Jake definitely had. She felt his gaze from behind his mirrored aviators. He cocked his head and grinned. A teasing grin, so sexy and unsettling that she nearly tripped over her own feet. He edged close, lowered his voice, and said, "Naughty wind peeked up your skirt." "So did you." "Nice legs, Peep.

Jack kept track of the triplets while she slipped on his jacket. It was large, roomy, and scented with his maleness. All earthy and musk. The bottom leather edge fell mid-thigh and, once zipped, held down her polka dots. His body warmth embraced her, chasing away the chill and further indignity. Grateful, she smiled and mouthed, Thank you. He spoke low. "We've denied the wind the big reveal." We, as in he and she. Together. A lusty gust pressed his gray cotton T-shirt to his chest. Etching his firm pecs and six-pack. The man was built. "You won't get cold?" she asked. "I've plenty of heat, Peep." That he did. She was feeling overheated herself. Not only from the jacket but from his nearness.

Lobster was a mainstay at the café. Lunch hour lobster rolls and lobster pot pie sold as fast as breakfast hotcakes.

It was apparent Jake had taken a hot shower. The air was scented with amber and musk. Enticingly male. She spotted him when he turned away from the sink and cut her a look, sharp with surprise. He was a heart-stopper. He stood nearly nude. A knotted towel hung low on his hip bones. The gap near his groin was shadowed. Neither managed a word. Silence held between them. Engulfing and immodest. She dared to stare. His masculinity merged with the mist. Her gaze flicked over his damp hair, hard face, and thick-muscled chest. Alpha and carnal. All slickened sexiness and raw strength. His legs were long and strong. His feet big and bare. A sigh escaped, low and throaty. She sagged against the doorframe. A dead giveaway that she liked what she saw--- a little too much. She was so into him that she twitched when he said, "Are you flashing me, Hannah? Bra and pretty pink panties.

He was tall and leanly muscled with broad shoulders and a solid chest that was built for cuddling. Naked cuddling. After a full, long night of no-promises sex. He opened her door. "Let me help. It's a big step down." "Is that a jab at my size?" she said with no heat. "No, it's an excuse to get my hands on you." As promised, his big, manly hands spanned her waist and he lifted her from the seat and let her slide, oh so slowly, down his body until she was safely on the ground. Only he didn't let go right away, holding her snug against him, so all their good parts lined up. "And I think your size is pretty fucking perfect." Man, was she ever in trouble. Tingles sizzled, starting in her belly and moving to all the essential parts so quickly she could scarcely breathe. Stupid tingles, they were at the center of this mess. This problematic, complicated, and incredibly sexy mess that, as far as she could conclude, would only be solved one way. "Buttercup," he whispered. "You keep looking at me like that and we're both going to be in trouble." "I've never gotten in trouble," she said, sliding her hands up up his chest. "I'm beginning to think I've been missing out." Hudson groaned and rested his forehead on hers. "If we go there now, I won't be able to show you the best part."' "Funny, I was thinking by going there, we'd get to the best part faster." "When we go there, it will be slow, and long, and will take all night and into the next day.

Wanting to check off every box on her list, Hudson took control. Gentle at first, building from a slow burn to surface-of-the-sun. They moved together, faster and more frantic, their momentum catching fire. Desperate for leverage, he leaned her back against the table, and they quickly became a sweaty tangle of arms and legs. Touching, sliding, exploring. He knew when it happened, when she forgot about tallies and checkmarks and gave herself over to the possibilities. Gave herself over to him. Her hands slid up and down his spine, her eyes shining up as she started to tighten around him. The air burned his lungs, so he gave up on breathing. His chest felt too big for his skin, his knees began to buckle, and he wanted to run away and come home all at the same time. Her legs pulled him down until there wasn't even a breath between them. She buried her face into the curve of his shoulder, holding him as though he was one of the good ones. For the first time in his life, he was determined to be that guy--- to erase any hesitation she'd had about them. "I'm almost there," she moaned, clenching and drawing him all the way in, which drove him right over the edge. The pressure built, hotter and higher, and he fought to keep himself in check, but her thighs tightened around his waist until he thought he'd pass out and then, hallelujah, she began to shake. She pushed up as he came down, sinking so deep he knew he never wanted to leave.

The only thing throw pillows are good for are naked pillow fights

Instead of handing him back his pen, she decided to add one more thing. She handed him the list, which he read, then gave a low, sexy chuckle. " 'Is interested in joining the mile-high club.' I've got just the chopper for that," he said as he kissed her again.

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