A while back, Petra and I found a volunteer pumpkin patch on the banks of Antietam creek. One of the fruit made its way to our home. We added it to onion soup. Consumption of the end product required mastery of gag reflexes, a talent acquired in the third world. At Thanksgiving, we were the recipients a pumpkin of blue ribbon fair proportions. Last week fugitive mice were privileged to the following conversation.
Parsimonious Paul: “We need to eat that pumpkin.”
Winsome Wife: “Let’s make it into pumpkin pie.”
Parsimonious Paul: “But I don’t like pie crust.”
Winsome Wife: “That’s ok, pie crust isn’t very healthy anyway. We’ll just make a bunch of filling.”
Plans proceeded accordingly. The pumpkin proved obdurate and Petra was unable to penetrate its tank-like hide. I fetched a saw and reduced it to a heap of mangled chunks. Petra piled these onto every baking dish in the house and the oven kindly stretched itself to accommodate.
Sometime later, after reducing the chunks to three gallons of orange mash, Petra discovered that we lacked several critical ingredients, most notably sugar. Fugitive mice heard something like this:
Winsome Wife: (in deep distress) “We don’t have any sugar, or A, or B, or C, or … X, or Y, or Z.”
Parsimonious Paul: (spoken sadly) “Well, I guess we could go buy some of that.”
Winsome Wife: (Cheerfully) “Nevermind. Sugar doesn’t have nutritional value anyway. And it’s not healthy! Why should we pay for it?”
Parsimonious Paul: (dubiously) ok…
It doesn’t taste like pie, but it’s far better than the onion flavored brew we choked down last month. We only have 1.4 gallons to go…