Twas the night before Thanksgiving. My brother and I had been looking forward to our project all week, although it felt like our whole lives because we had never done it before. Like two kids in a candy shop, we prepped the kitchen neatly and hauled the key ingredient onto the counter. Mom ran out to the store for sugar as we patiently waited. She called five minutes later asking if we wanted canned pumpkin for a back up. My brother, offended by the question, responded “NO!” So, once all the ingredients were gathered, we began. Carefully and evenly slicing a circle around the stalk, we then cut the pumpkin into eighths. All the while, my dog stood at attention waiting for bits of orange flesh to hit the floor. One hour slipped by and then two. My mind relaxes and wanders when I work with my hands.

As the pumpkin slices baked and the tough leathery skin effortlessly turned soft and golden, and an unfamiliar yet warm and savory smell of pumpkin drove our excitement. With all of the dry ingredients mixed and prepared, we pulled the hot pans out of the oven. 

But something was off. My brother was convinced it was because we hadn’t added our conglomerate of sugars and spices to it yet. I took a spoonful of the soft, baked, pumpkin flesh and gave it a try. It tasted like it smelled. It was nice, but it was more like a savory squash than the sweet pie base that we were anticipating. Somewhere along the journey, I knew we had made a mistake. Although we had followed the recipe faithfully, we simply had the wrong type of pumpkin. Who knew there were so many unique cousins to the traditional pie baking pumpkins! I could sense the disappointment and regret radiating from my brother without even looking at him. I guess we should have gotten that backup canned pumpkin when we had the chance, I thought to myself but didn’t dare say. I knew how badly he wanted to make a beautiful Thanksgiving pie. 

I sampled the fruits of our labor again and thought about what else we could use the pounds of steaming hot pumpkin for. Soup! My favorite food. I had never made pumpkin soup before, but we had nothing to lose at this point. I put the pie crust, mixing bowls, and spices aside and brought out a bag of onions, broth, and the blender. My brother had quit on the project at this point, as he had no interest in anything other than the pie and hated soup. Now that the baking project had turned into cooking, I ditched the recipe book and used the tried and true taste-test method to make three pots of creamy pumpkin soup. 

I had forgotten all about the eventful late night until the fragrance of the soup escaped with the steam while I defrosted a serving of it on the stove top.