I went to a pumpkin patch yesterday, and I'm kicking myself for not having brought my camera. It was photoworthy.
Mom, Dad, The Fiance and I traipsed through the Patch of Pumpkins, hot apple cider in hand, pumpkins on the brain. And underfoot. And as far as the eye can see. Pumpkins everywhere. All over. Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins.
Have I mentioned how much I LOVE pumpkins and fall and Halloween? Because I do. 'Tis the most fabulous time of the year ever. In fact, I declare October through Feb. 4 the best four months and three days of the year. (Of course we have to STOP at Feb. 4 because, well, it's my birthday, and once that's over, there's nothing left to look forward to until the next October. Sigh).
Anyhow, pumpkins. So, we're at the patch. And we're pumpkin hunting. And we're on a mission because Krista Wants To Find The Biggest Pumpkin In The Entire Patch. And also a small one, just for good measure. But people, I have standards. The pumpkins must be JUST so. The right shade of orange. The correct plumpness. A height and width so perfectly proportionate one must use a ruler and scale to craft its perfectness. (Thank goodness Mother Nature takes care of that business for me).
Every so often Mom or Dad would pipe up, "Found one!" In which I'd walk carefully through the patch (mustn't squash the ever-growing orbs of orange) to investigate. I'd bow down, give it a once over. Maybe a twice over. Touch. Poke. Prod. Pick up. Turn over. Find an imperfection, and send the troops back out into the patch. Perfection, people! We're looking for perfection!
The Fiance and Mom gave up searching for The Largest Pumpkin of All Time and began the search for Perfect Small-ish Pumpkin To Sit Upon My Kitchen Table With No Purpose But To Torment The Cats. As I was busy investigating their finds ("No, too lumpy." "Oh, no. No stem."
"Seriously?"), Dad hollered across the patch. He stood proudly at the foot of Probably The Biggest Pumpkin We Were Going To Find Because, Quite Frankly, People, Pumpkins Only Get So Big.
"That's the one."
I said it with affirmation. Dad likely should've won an gold medal. All that hard work. Mom and The Fiance nodded in agreement. We had The One. So then, of course, we made Dad lug it out of the patch and to the car. Oh, and he paid for it. Good Dad. Goodness all around.
While I was basking in O' Holy Pumpkin glory, Mom piped up again. A small-ish pumpkin, perfect in shape and texture, grew at her feet. Still ATTACHED to its vine. The perfect specimen. We, of course, ripped it out, beaming. And then made The Fiance carry it out of the patch because we're women. We don't carry dirty pumpkins. We only point and say, "I want THAT one."
I felt good about my choices. I was proud of my team. Good job, Team. As we were walking out of the patch, Small-ish Pumpkin in The Fiance's hand, he spotted another potential perfect small-ish pumpkin. I stopped abruptly to inspect. But, I just couldn't do it.
"No," I said simply, looking back at The Fiance and My Perfect Small-ish Pumpkin. "I've already formed a relationship with my small-ish pumpkin. We will keep him."
And with that, we had the perfect pumpkins.