October begins with the pumpkin.
Not officially, of course. There is no constitutional amendment declaring October the National Month of the Pumpkin, although frankly, there doesn’t seem to be much standing in the way of that. Still, this time of year, you could be forgiven for thinking the pumpkin has taken over. One day it is sitting innocently in a field, minding its own business. The next, it has been photographed, painted, carved, stacked on a porch, turned into soup, baked into a muffin, poured into a coffee, reduced to a scented candle, and marketed as a lifestyle.
Nobody has done more with less than the pumpkin.
And what exactly is a pumpkin? A large orange squash with the nutritional charisma of a cardboard box. Technically, it’s a berry. A kind of berry called a pepo – consisting of a tough, outer skin or rind, and a soft, fleshy interior with seeds. I learned more about pumpkins than I ever wanted to know researching just that one sentence. Still, that’s what you have me for – I do the research, so you don’t have to. You’re welcome.
Every October, we behave as though civilization has rediscovered fire. Go on then. Take a good look around; you’ve got:
- pumpkin bread
- pumpkin pie
- pumpkin soup
- pumpkin ravioli
- pumpkin pancakes
- pumpkin cookies
- pumpkin butter
- pumpkin beer
- pumpkin spice
And, inevitably, something called a “pumpkin spice latte,” which contains about as much pumpkin as your car contains horse. There isn’t even anything particularly mysterious about pumpkin spice. It’s essentially cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves. But we love it. We line up for it. We post photographs of it. We announce that “pumpkin spice is back” with the fanfare that might accompany the comeback of an 80s pop star. Would you believe I actually saw footage on YouTube of Rick Astley playing a festival the other day? I know… Rick Astley! Seriously. Go figure.
Now I’ll bet you didn’t expect to be Rick Rolled in this post did ‘ya, thoughtful reader?
That was painful. And cruel. Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. Now I will return you to our regularly scheduled program. The pumpkin has become less of a food and more of a cultural hostage scenario for western civilization which coincides with cooler weather and, depending where you live, fall foliage. And just when you can’t take any more, October produces another pumpkin product…
pumpkin-scented candles.
pumpkin-scented soap.
pumpkin-scented laundry detergent.
For f**k’s sake, I don’t want my apartment to smell like a pie. I want my apartment to smell like an apartment. Well, technically, I want it to smell like the ocean. Or at least Febreze’s idea of what the ocean smells like.
But October refuses to compromise. The pumpkin must be everywhere. Then comes Oktoberfest, because apparently the Germans looked at October and thought, “This could use considerably more beer.”
Oktoberfest is perhaps the most straightforward seasonal celebration ever invented: put on short pants held up by suspenders, drink enormous quantities of beer, eat sausages, listen to Oompah music, and convince yourself that syncopated sound coming out of the accordion is pleasing.
On that subject, where do accordions go for the rest of the year? I’ve seen pianos in my travels. A piano makes for a very classy piece of furniture, even if no one in the house actually plays it. But accordions? Nobody, nowhere really owns an accordion. Growing up, my friend Gene had one. But he also had a parrot that didn’t talk. So obviously there was a lot more going on in his house than I should mention without some kind of social worker present.
Here where I live, we’re having an Oktoberfest party at 3 o’clock today. America has managed to turn Oktoberfest into an event where people who have never been within 4,000 miles of Bavaria suddenly become deeply interested in lederhosen and people who couldn’t identify Munich on a map are suddenly experts in German beer.
“Ah, yes, I prefer a traditional Märzen.”
You had a Bud Light on Tuesday. Relax, Wolfgang.
Still, Oktoberfest has something many seasonal traditions lack: honesty. Nobody at Oktoberfest pretends they’re there to “slow down and reconnect with nature.”
They’re there for beer.
There are no scented candles. No inspirational quotes. No one is sitting quietly beside a window journaling about the changing seasons. There is just a man wearing suspenders and leather shorts eating a pretzel the size of a steering wheel. Finally, something I can get behind – a tradition with integrity! And pretzels. I love pretzels.
And October somehow manages to put these two worlds side by side: the pumpkin crowd and the beer crowd. One group is spending $7 on a beverage containing six spices and a vague hint of Thanksgiving. The other is spending $15 on a beer large enough to require structural engineering. Both believe they are celebrating culture.
October is also the month when ordinary objects undergo aggressive rebranding:
- a pumpkin becomes “fall décor”
- a candle becomes “seasonal ambiance”
- a plaid shirt becomes a “fall essential”
- a beer becomes a “cultural experience”
- a pastry becomes a “limited-time seasonal offering”
Apparently, the calendar itself is now a marketing department. Nothing is allowed to simply exist. Everything must be seasonal. Even coffee needs a costume.
And then there are the decorations. People place pumpkins on their porches with the seriousness of museum curators arranging priceless artifacts. Some are real. Some are plastic. Some are made of ceramic. Some are covered in glitter, because apparently the pumpkin wasn’t already gaudy and gauche enough.
And by the end of November, these objects will all be packed into storage bins and forgotten until next year, when they will be rediscovered with the same enthusiasm shown by archeologists digging up archaeological treasures.
October has perfected the art of selling us things we already own in slightly more orange packaging. But perhaps that’s the real appeal of the month. October gives us permission to be ridiculous.
For a few weeks, we can drink pumpkin-flavored everything, carve faces into vegetables, dress like Bavarian tourists, consume alarming quantities of beer and candy, and pretend all of this is a meaningful cultural tradition.
Bonus points if you can spot what’s wrong with that sentence.
Yup, a pumpkin is actually a fruit and not a vegetable because it develops from a pollinated flower and contains seeds. People often call it a vegetable because of how it’s used in savory meals like soups and stews. Told you I learned more about the pumpkin than I ever wanted (or needed) to know!
But we don’t need to justify any of this because it’s October. Next month it’s midterms, turkey, and Black Friday, and LGBTQ+ Pride if you live in Palm Springs. For now, break out the pumpkins and the beer. And don’t forget Amazon Prime Day October 6 and 7 from 12:01 am Pacific on October 6th until 11:59 pm Pacific on October 7th.
