This year, we picked our pumpkins from a place called Lull Farm in Hollis, New Hampshire, an ordinary enough farm except for the seemingly incongruous Jamaican touches throughout. Apparently, the place employs a Jamaican workforce who live here during the farming months and then return to the island during the winter. Which is cool. I just never thought I’d ever write Jamaican and New Hampshire in the same sentence.
Usually we get our pumpkins early in the month and let them sit around as decorations for a while before perforating them, but because we were out of town for a chunk of October, we went almost directly from patch to Jack.
It’s hard not to be the Halloween kind of happy with one of these in your house. Or four.
Well, three-and-a-half. We didn’t carve the baby’s pumpkin. Carve and baby are also weird sentence-mates.