According to Tad Tuleja’s chapter on pumpkins in Rooted in America: Foodlore of Popular Fruits and Vegetables, the plump gourd was eaten throughout this continent from the beginning of human settlement: “The Indians had used the pumpkin, and squashes in general, in baked, boiled, roasted, and dried forms. The colonists, quick to appreciate the fruit’s versatility, soon employed it not only in puddings and stews, but also in breads, johnnycakes, butter, syrups, and pies.”
Long before the term “microbrewery” existed, it was even used to make ale. Limited-time offers being a rather more recent phenomenon, I decided to subsist on nothing else for a day, and see if the seasonal fad for all things orange and sugary validates an old anonymous rhyme: “We have pumpkins at morning and pumpkins at noon/ If it were not for pumpkins we should be undone.”
Pumpkin Spice Muffin, from Tim Hortons. This was a passable carrot muffin.
Pumpkin Spice Latte, from Starbucks. I rarely drink coffee: if I ever went teetotal (ha ha ha), I could become a Mormon. When I do imbibe, it tends to be some iced concoction, so I can’t really judge this drink as a brew. Unlike the previous entry, however, both pumpkin and spices were evident here, with coffee itself an aftertaste at most. It becomes increasingly orange while absorbing the semi-solid cap of whipped cream.
Pumpkin roti, from Ali’s West Indian Roti Shop. Not sure whether you can overdose on artificial flavouring, but it seemed to be time for something savoury. The faintly sweet pumpkin puree inside Ali’s fat roti was nicely offset by crumbling potatoes and acidic spinach. I’ll probably keep on ordering the carnivorous ones, because jerk chicken is a pinnacle of human civilization, but vegetarians could make an autumnal feast out of this.
Pumpkin stew, from M&B Yummy. The gloomy interior of Toronto’s only meatless Ethiopian restaurant was as supernatural as this marathon ever got. Though I’d begun to dread the next serving of orange plant matter, M&B Yummy threw me—their pumpkin stew, studded with chunks of delicious pulp, is not just spiced but spicy. Sour injera contained the mild heat.
The idea of concluding with pumpkin pie felt a little obvious, so I went to see if Greg’s had any of their eerily similar-tasting ice cream (nope). Then I got to Wanda’s five minutes after closing time. That set me off on a flustered, deluded, almost violently irrational hunt, as if I was Michael Myers and the pastry some heedlessly nubile teenager. After several false leads, I wandered into Swiss Chalet and paid five dollars for a Styrofoam-covered sliver. Is there a sadder possible order? “No, ma’am, my family didn’t just disown me or die in that plane crash—this is depressing in a whole different way!”
Pumpkin pie, from Swiss Chalet. At one point, Rooted in America quotes vintage doggerel about the archetypal Thanksgiving food: “Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,/ Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking than thine!” Well, not this pie. Swiss Chalet’s version is sweet and cloying, cinnamon its only apparent seasoning. The goopy consistency and ectoplasmic texture evoke another holiday entirely.
Pumpkin Ale, from Great Lakes Brewery. A common telling of the jack-o’-lantern’s origins holds that its human namesake, having cheated the Devil of his soul and enjoyed himself far too much to enter Heaven, was condemned to walk the earth eternally, forever trapped between worlds. GLB’s pumpkin ale avoids such a fate. Bearing the same complex mix of spices as a great pie, the sweetness and pumpkin-ness balance each other out enough that it still tastes like beer, rather than liquid dessert. Maybe I was a half-crazed addict after eating this stuff all day, but it went down like a Dutch World Cup goal, an NDP victory rally, a spray of citrus.
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Chris Randle is Toronto Standard’s Culture Editor.
