Carving Pumpkins

There is something extremely satisfying about carving pumpkins. Each Halloween I haul out the old stiletto knife, a few oversized spoons, and, with the, err, assistance of my children, carve our load of pumpkins into glowing, light-filled beacons for the Halloween night. If I were more superstitious I'd say it was my ancestral Druid blood urging me on. I do find it hard to stop once I get going. Pumpkins are always so wet and redolent of the harvest, and they do have such strange, uninhibited shapes. It's no wonder J.K. Rowling chose them for her wizard beverage.

This year we had two extra hands on the table, which meant more "discussion" around exactly what to carve on each pumpkin - who was going to get the slightly rotting one, who was going to get the white one, and who was going to wield the super sharp knife. Fortunately I have a bit of the dictator in me, and quarrels were few, once we got a few ground rules ironed out: Mum does not carve for hours; Mum does not usually carve more than one design in each pumpkin; Mum is the only one who holds the really sharp knife. I did cave and attempt a Totoro design, although a couple of girls who came to the door ("We're Punkers!" they said brightly, not knowing that that was me several years ago) said "Oooh, what a cute pig!" Sigh. Let's just hope that Miyazaki doesn't come trick or treating at my house...