Tag: Almanac

Almanac July 2023

July is a recipe for pie.

As the birds blurt out their morning devotions, your mantra is singular and succinct: blueberries. Even the word feels ripe and juicy. You snag a sunhat, load up on water, gather the vessels for the great summer harvest.

Before the heat consumes the day, you step into the balmy morning, bright-eyed and unwavering. The walk to the woody temple is more than a core memory. You know it in your bones. As the robin chants his ancient hymn, you whistle along:

Blue-ber-ries, ber-ries, ber-ries, blue-ber-ries . . .

At last, you stand before the altar of the sun-loving shrubs, awestruck. Clusters of plump berries nearly drip from sweeping branches. The ripe ones tumble at your touch.

You find your rhythm: three for the basket; one for the tongue. You’ll need six cups for pie. Seventy berries per cup.

One for the basket, three for the tongue. The pop of sweetness fuels you. Pie is nice, but fresh berries are the best berries. Just ask the whistling robin.

As the air becomes syrup, you reach for one last cluster, coaxing a final palmful with purple-stained fingers. One, two, three for the tongue.

On the trek back, belly and baskets brimming, you are one with the great summer harvest. The horizon holds visions of sugar and lemon and lattice crust. Yet nothing could be sweeter than this sun-drenched moment, the salt on your skin, fresh blueberries on the tongue.

Like a Charm

Black-eyed Susan is blooming. Jewelweed, too. And, did you see that brilliant flash of yellow?

At last, it’s nesting season for the American goldfinch. Where the thistle grows wild and thick, female finches line their nests with — that’s right — fluffy white thistle down.

These late-season breeders undulate through the air as they fly, foraging for thistle and grass seeds in wide-open meadows. Spotting one is a delight. But should you ever see a flock of them (they’re gregarious year-round), consider yourself charmed. A congregation of goldfinches, after all, is called a charm.

Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup. — Wendell Berry

In the Garden

Snap beans and melons and snakes! Oh, my.

The summer garden is brimming with goodness and — if you’re lucky — perhaps a resident garter snake. Harmless to humans (although they may bite in self-defense), these carnivorous wonders feast on slugs, cucumber beetles and other garden pests. They’re not here for the Silver Queen or Cherokee Purples.

This time of year, female garters may be eating for two. Or, rather, a wriggling knot of live young. Learn how to identify these slithering allies should you peel back the vines to a surprise garden party. Don’t forget your stripes! PS

Almanac June 2023

June is a daydream; a picnic; a long, sweet song.

Beyond the sunlit meadow — thick with thistle and crickets and Queen Anne’s lace — the grandfather oak has gone moony. Most days, he is patient. Steadfast and uncomplaining. But on this day, when the painted lady drifts past the sea of red clover, he is fraught with expectation. The children of summer are coming.

As they float through the meadow, blankets and baskets in tow, the oak is awestruck. They could go anywhere. Bring their banquet to the altar of some other worthy tree. But they don’t. As they make their way through towering thistle, past bee balm and poppies and raves of day lilies, the grandfather knows: The children of summer will be here soon.

They come singing. Come with just-picked daisies. Come with a spread of luscious offerings:

A palmful of wineberries.

Pickled cucumbers.

Mint, marigolds and beets.

Roasted potatoes.

Dandelion shortbread.

Honeysuckle and homemade mead.

In the shade of the grand old tree, the children sprawl in dappled light, laughing and feasting and giving thanks. For them, hours pass like minutes. For the oak, time stands still.

When you’ve seen as many summers as he has — not to mention all the winters — these are the days you live for. Days of abundance. Days of praise and cicadas. When youth is a state of the heart, each breath is a banquet, and nature gets a glimpse of its own reflection.

Citronelly! Citronelly!

A summer without mosquitos isn’t a summer. No way around ’em, but we’ve got allies. Citronella, anyone?

Also known as scented geranium, citronella is one of the best-known pest repellents to add to the garden. But there are others.

Basil: Not just for pesto! This fragrant, prolific herb deters both mosquitos and flies. Learn how to trim it for larger yields.

Rosemary: Likes it hot. Thankfully, the woodsy aroma that we know and love sends the swamp devils onward.

Marigolds: Easy to grow? Check. Better yet, their lovely flowers attract predatory insects.

Bee balm: Out with the nippers, in with the bees and skippers.

Other plant allies include lavender, mint, lemon grass, catnip, sage and allium. Play around to see which plants work best for your garden. Besides mosquitos, what do you have to lose?

Strawberry Moon

The full Strawberry Moon rises on Saturday, June 3. It won’t be pink, but it will appear golden just after sunset, reaching peak illumination by midnight.

A new moon on Sunday, June 18 — Father’s Day — means clear skies for stargazing. See if you can spot Boötes (the herdsman), Libra (the scales), Lupus (the wolf) and Ursa Minor (the little bear) this month. Bonus points for a firefly constellation. PS

2023 Almanac Department

Almanac May 2023

May is the nimble bard, back again, rendering tales of romance and revelry.

When the peonies sing out and the black snake sheds his winter skin, the bard slinks in with an age-old poem, jubilant and familiar. You recognize the words but the tune has changed. It’s more florid, less restrained.

A bard never sings the same song twice.

The poem is a constellation of roses, a bouquet of wild songbirds, a quivering fawn, wet from birth. It is a bluebird’s first flight, a canopy of tree frogs, a fox kit emerging from the den.

It’s a tale of first love — a whisper, a giggle, a kiss — a sacred song between two hearts and the ancient, flowering magnolia.

The rhythm quickens for the ballad of the bee and the lady’s slipper; the waltz of the foxglove and hummingbird; the butterfly’s ode to red clover.

Honeysuckle on the tongue, the bard weaves from wild place to formal garden, from strawberry patch to rabbit burrow, from poppy field to chrysalis.

She sings of earthworms and spring rain; soft grass and bare feet; the boy and his mud castle.

Listen for the girl in the sunhat. Snap peas on the trellis. Dandelions and cartwheels and picnic baskets.

The wind sings along, carrying her tune through the leafed-out trees until we are nectar-drunk and flushed. Each word pulses with ecstasy. We cannot help but sing along.

Three animal friends in clothes fox, rabbit and ferret chatting on summer picnic with food on bedspread isolated on white background. Watercolor hand drawn illustration sketch

Among the Wildflowers

National Wildflower Week, celebrated during the first full week of May, is spring at its finest. The air is sweet. Roadsides and meadows are bursting with life and color. The pollinators are here for the party.

Perhaps you know that in 2016, the North Carolina Wildlife Federation launched The Butterfly Highway project in response to the alarming decline of native bees and monarch butterflies. This conservation restoration initiative continues to expand its “network of native flowering plants” to help sustain our pollen- and nectar-dependent wild ones. Interested in adding a “Pollinator Pitstop” to the map? Visit ncwf.org/habitat/butterfly-highway, where you can find N.C. native pollinator seed packets, discover what’s blooming this month, and learn more.

The word May is a perfumed word . . . It means youth, love, song; and all that is beautiful in life. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, journal, 1861

The Great Mother

Creation stories of the Lenape and Iroquois people evoke images of a great cosmic turtle carrying the world on its back. Surely all mothers have felt like that turtle from time to time.

This year, Mother’s Day lands on Sunday, May 14. Perhaps fittingly, World Turtle Day is celebrated this month, too — on Tuesday, May 23.

The Eastern box turtle, N.C.’s state reptile, begins nesting at the end of this month. Although common across the state, the Eastern box turtle population is declining. When next you see one, wish it well. She could be carrying eggs — or tending a clutch of tiny, delicate worlds. PS

2023 Almanac Department

Almanac

Almanac April 2023

April is a quivering brood, a bellyful of earthworms, a fledgling’s maiden flight.

The sun is out. A banquet of wild violets glistens in the wake of a spring rain. The birdbath runneth over.

In the garden, a pair of robins scurry from worm to worm, flit from soft earth to wriggling nest, from wriggling nest to soft earth. There are mouths to feed. Four beaks, bright as buttercups, open and urging for more, more, more.

Born pink and blind, the robin hatchlings know nothing of rat snakes or corvids; nothing of cold winds or the bloodthirsty cat by the birdbath. By some miracle, the chicks emerged from pale blue eggs into a world that is soft, safe and kindly. By some miracle, they know only the warmth of their mother, the warmth of the nest, the warmth inside their plump, translucent bellies.

Days from now, everything will change. First, tiny quills will appear on the nestlings’ feeble bodies. Next, their eyes will crack open, the sudden light revealing a world of color and danger and new horizons.

In two weeks, when the dandelions have multiplied and the earliest strawberries blossom, the speckled fledglings will jump the nest.

What happens next?

For the young robins: peril or miracle.

For the robin pair: another nest, another clutch, another thousand trips from quivering brood to soft earth.

The Blushing Maiden

The Full Pink Moon rises on Thursday, April 6. Native Americans named this moon for the creeping phlox now blushing across the tender earth. This year, the Pink Moon also happens to be the Paschal Moon — the first full moon of spring.

Also called moss phlox, the fragrant blossoms of this herbaceous perennial make it a butterfly magnet.

But it’s not the only pink flower in bloom. Tulips come in 50 shades of it.

There’s the pink-flowering dogwood, the eastern redbud (pardon the misleading name) and the showstopping cherry.

Don’t forget the pink azaleas, coming soon.

Easter (aka, the moveable feast) always falls on the first Sunday following the Paschal full moon. This year, Easter is celebrated on Sunday, April 9. If you’re planning to hide eggs, careful where you stash the pink ones.

Today has been a day dropped out of June into April. — L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars

April Shower

According to Smithsonian magazine, the Lyrid meteor shower is one of the 10 most “dazzling” events for stargazers in 2023. This year’s shower peaks on Saturday, April 22 (Earth Day).

“Observers are usually able to see about 18 meteors per hour in a clear, dark sky,” the article states, “though on rare occasions, the Lyrids can surprise viewers with as many as 100 meteors in an hour.”

At 6 percent illumination, the waxing crescent moon should make for favorable viewing conditions.

As for a clear sky? We’ll see. Or, we won’t. PS

2023 Almanac Department

Almanac

March is a born artist, wide-eyed and unbridled, creating for the sake of life itself.

The genius begins with a single daffodil, warm and bright, nodding in a stream of honeyed light. Each petal is a world of yellow. Each leaf, a meditation on green.

The artist becomes obsessed.

One daffodil becomes a series, progressively abstract, until each flower is more essence than form.

Paintings expand into wild landscapes. Quick as the hand can move, a rolling sea of yellow starbursts stretches from one canvas to the next. The foreground softens. Thick and messy brushstrokes evoke a tender, playful light.

Crested irises and yellow violets now spill from the frenzied brush, followed by flowering clover, purple deadnettle, wild onions, chickweed and a downy flush of dandelions.

Robins begin to appear. Bluebirds, too. Tree swallows and towhees and red-winged blackbirds. The painting nearly sings out.

Leafless branches, stark among the luscious earth, are suddenly laden with clusters of crimson whirligigs. Redbuds are studded with bright fuchsia blossoms. Soft pink swirls adorn silver-limbed saucer magnolias.

The brush strokes quicken. A sweep of tulips colors the earth magnificent. As spring bursts forth, flower by brilliant, quivering flower, the artist surrenders to the muse.

On the Wild Side

Among the wild blossoms beginning to carpet the soft earth — fig buttercups and field mustard, blood root and Johnny jump-ups, dimpled trout lilies and Carolina jessamine — the common blue violet is one you’ll likely spot in damp woods and shady meadows. Also called the woolly blue violet, wood violet or common meadow violet, this short-stemmed perennial is known for its heart-shaped leaves (edible) and white-throated purple flowers (also edible).

But have you ever seen a bird’s foot violet? Named for the shape of its narrowly lobed leaves (they do, in fact, resemble bird feet), this viola species prefers dry, sandy soil and pine lands. The five-petaled flower, lilac or bicolored with bright orange anthers, is largely considered to be the most beautiful violet in the world. But what spring bloomer isn’t a bewitching vision to our winter-weary eyes?

Our life is March weather, savage and serene in one hour. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Time to Sow

The cold earth is thawing. The Full Sap Moon rises on Tuesday, March 7. The maple sap is flowing once again.

The vernal equinox occurs on Monday, March 20 — along with a dark, balsamic moon. As a new season and cycle begin, we return to the garden.

In early March, sow carrot, spinach, radish, pea and turnip seeds directly into the softening earth. Mid-month, sow chives, parsley, onion and parsnips. At month’s end: beet and arugula seeds.

Broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage seedlings can be transplanted outdoors mid- to late-month. Ditto kale, Swiss chard, lettuce and kohlrabi.

Growing season has commenced. As the days grow warmer still, behold the simple miracle of spring’s return. The miracle of life itself. PS

2023 Almanac Department

Almanac

February knows you’re weary.

She can tell by the longing in your eyes, the ache in your chest and shoulders, how you carry the cold like a burden.

On these frost-cloaked mornings, you dream of soft earth and tender blossoms, spring peepers and swallowtails, songbirds and sunny afternoons.

February knows. She cannot give you what she does not have. And yet, she offers hope.

At dawn, the frigid air nips your face and lungs, stuns you with its jarring presence. It’s hard, at first, to see beyond the dense clouds of your own breath. This is where you start: Breathe into the mystery. Let the formless take form. Watch your own warmth shape the world around you.

As the pink sky slowly brightens, two silhouettes appear in the glittering distance.

A pair of rabbits.

Something about their gentle presence softens the very landscape, softens your edges and your gaze. Weeks from now, their quiet stirrings will have conjured the first of many quivering litters. Something deep within you stirs.

February offers contrast.

Suddenly, you notice early crocus, jewel-like petals drenched with more color than you’ve seen in months. For now, this luscious purple is enough.

But there’s more.

When the first golden daffodil emerges from the frozen earth, a sunbeam lights upon your face. You close your eyes, basking in this subtle warmth, this fleeting glimpse of what’s to come.

The cold becomes quiet. As you walk the icy bridge between the harsh clutch of winter and the tender kiss of spring, you carry yourself differently. Hope is gleaming in your eyes, glittering on the horizon, tucked inside your chest like a sacred gift.

Bridge Between Seasons

The ancient Celts looked to the Wheel of the Year to celebrate and honor nature’s cycles, drawing wisdom from the turning of each season. Imbolc (observed on Feb. 1) marks the midpoint between the winter solstice (Yule) and the spring equinox (Ostara). In other words: Imbolc is a bridge between death and rebirth. Also known as Candlemas or Brigid’s (pronounced Breed’s) Day, this festival honors the return of the sun and celebrates the Celtic fertility goddess Brigid.

The days are growing longer. The sun, stronger. The earth opens to a quickening rhythm.

Soon, the seeds from last year’s harvest will be sown. As spring awakens within and around us, the great wheel turns and turns.

While it is February one can taste the full joys of anticipation. Spring stands at the gate with her finger on the latch. — Patience Strong

Crocus Pocus

Perhaps you know that saffron, the complex and costly spice, comes from the red stigmas of the autumn-blooming saffron crocus (C. sativus), not the snow crocuses you see now, bursting through the frozen earth. And yet, these winter-blooming beauties offer something of even greater value: the ineffable promise of spring.

Plant your own corms this fall. They’ll need full sun, moist but well-drained soil and a quiet winter to unlock their incomparable magic. PS

2023 Almanac Department

Almanac

January is a creation story.

It begins with the wrinkled hands of a grandmother — perhaps your own grandmother — in the darkest hour of morning.

The wise woman knows the secrets of this barren season. She’s found warmth in the bone-chilling air; comfort in the aching silence; promise in the dwindling pulse of winter. When the frozen earth has nothing left to give, she reaches for the mother dough — the breath of life — then steadies herself for the tedious ritual.

The mother dough is a myth of its own: a wild yeast kept bubbling since the dawn of time. The grandmother feeds it once more — a bit of flour, a bit of water — then walks away.

Breadmaking is a dance of time and space.

Tonight, she’ll make the leaven. Tomorrow, the dough. The rest is as crucial as the work.

At first light, a nuthatch sings its rhythmic song. Grandmother washes her ancient hands, folds the dough four times over, then lets it sit.

Two, three, four — sit.

Again. And, again. And, again.

The hours tick by. The dough rises. The grandmother hums as she dusts the work surface.

Creation is a process. After she shapes and scores the loaves, she bakes and cools them. Neither bread nor spring can be rushed. Such is the wisdom of this bitter season. Such is the wisdom of the grandmother.

Year of the Rabbit

The Lunar New Year begins on Sunday, Jan. 22. Goodbye, tiger. Hello, rabbit.

Considered the luckiest animal in the Chinese zodiac, the rabbit is a calm and gentle creature known for its grace, compassion and ability to take swift action. Those born in rabbit years are said to embody these desirable traits. Never mind their fickle nature and escapist tendencies.

But what does the Year of the Water Rabbit have in store for the whole fluffle (yes, that means bunch) of us?

Some say peace. Some say hope. The rabbits in the yard suggest more rabbits.

Anyone who thinks gardening begins in the spring and ends in the fall is missing the best part of the whole year, for gardening begins in January with a dream. — Josephine Nuese

The Blank Canvas

January is for dreaming. Every gardener knows that. Fetch the sketch pad. Reflect on last year’s highs and lows. Ask what your garden is missing.

This frosty month of seed catalogs and new beginnings, allow yourself to think outside the planter box. Or inside, if that’s your preference.

Is yours a kitchen garden? Butterfly garden? Purely ornamental?

Suppose you added more fragrance. Snowdrops in the springtime. Aromatic herbs in summer. Chrysanthemums in autumn. Honeysuckle and jasmine woven in between.

Color outside the lines. After all, nature does it all the time. PS

2023 Almanac Department

Almanac

December is a frosted window, a singing kettle, the busying of hands.

Beyond the glass, the breath of winter settles upon the still earth like a blanket of glittering lace. The garden withers. The air grows bitter. The cold sucks the life from the glistening landscape.

Yet, for a few precious hours, the wild ones stir.

As the sun thaws the silvery earth, critters emerge from their hideaways.

Birds flit from feeder to swinging feeder.

Deer feast on turkey tail mushrooms; paw for acorns; chomp on chicory and sunchoke roots.

Mice sniff out seeds. Rabbits munch on winter buds. Hawks watch from the naked trees above.

Inside, time is measured by cups of tea — earthy, dark and sweet. The fire crackles. The kettle sings. Quiet hands ache to make things:

Sourdough loaves studded with walnuts and dried figs.

Gingersnap cookies thick with blackstrap molasses.

Stovetop potpourri swirling with pine, orange and warming spices.

Winter wreaths woven with wild grape and honeysuckle vines.

Beyond the window, night comes early. The air grows frosty. Critters disappear with the dwindling light.

You stoke the fire, tend the kettle, nurture an ancient knowing growing wilder in your winter bones.

Long Nights Moon

The Cold Moon rises on Thursday, Dec. 8. Also called the Long Nights Moon and the Moon Before Yule, this month’s full and luminous wonder will share the limelight with a bright and strikingly visible Mars. With the Red Planet at opposition (meaning the Earth is positioned between it and the sun), Mars will appear brighter than all the stars.

Speaking of lustrous marvels, the Geminids meteor shower will peak on Dec. 13 and 14, illuminating the night sky with up to 120 meteors per hour. As its name suggests, this celestial pageant will emanate from the constellation Gemini, but here’s a hint: Just look up.

The final meteor shower of 2022 happens in tandem with the winter solstice on Dec. 21 — the longest night of the year. Although it’s hardly as eventful as the aforementioned Geminids, a dark sky makes conditions favorable for the Ursids, a minor shower that peaks with up to 10 meteors per hour.

May your nights be merry and bright. And your New Year, full of light.

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. — Mary Oliver

Where the Sunchokes Shine

’Tis the season for Jerusalem artichokes, which are not, in fact, from The Holy City. Nor are they artichokes. These tasty tubers, also known as sunroots, sunchokes, wild sunflowers and earth apples, were first cultivated by indigenous peoples. When Italian settlers discovered this yellow-flowering plant, they dubbed it girasole, the Italian word for sunflower. The blossoms do look a bit like sunflowers, but they are actually more like daisies. Anyway, “girasole” became “Jerusalem” over time. You know how it goes.

Assuming the ground isn’t frozen, the tubers can be harvested all winter. Then what?

Scrub them, slice them and toss them with oil and spices.

Roast them until tender. Sauté them with garlic. Pan-fry them with butter and sage. You’ll figure it out.

A root by any other name would taste as savory and sweet. PS

2022 Almanac Department

Almanac

November is a great sweeping wind, a clearing of what must go, a dance with a howling reaper.

The crickets have disappeared. Their nightly serenades, which crackled like warm vinyl from spring through harvest season, faded with the first hard frost. In their wake, the wind shrieks through naked trees. A great horned owl bellows from his perch.

The garden folds into itself. The porch toads that lurked by the watering can on warm autumn evenings now burrow beneath the frost line. Field mice shimmy down chimneys, squeeze through eaves, craft their nests inside cozy walls.

Songbirds come and go. Hermit thrushes strip the hollies of their crimson fruit. White-throated sparrows shuffle through crumpled leaves, scratching up what’s buried underneath.

The wind sings of a quickening darkness. The squirrels, scrambling to cache pecans as they fall, retort with squawks and chatter. A skein of geese sails across a golden sunset.

At dusk, when the wind nips at the heels of those still roaming, a pair of coyotes yips and howls beyond the fringe. Back and forth they shriek, wailing like banshees, piercing the air with their shrill and haunting staccato.

“I’m here,” cries one to the other.

A single voice sounds like dozens.

A biting wind howls back.

When Pies Fly

For our neighbors in Albany, Georgia (pecan capital of the world), it’s raining you-know-what right now. But we have our share of toothsome treasures plummeting upon our leaf-littered neck of the woods, too. Especially in the southeastern part of the state. Whatever you call them — PEE-cans or pee-KAHNS — ’tis harvest season. Pick them as they drop or else the crows and squirrels will beat you to it. You’ll want to let them cure (essential if they’re not yet ripe) before shelling and freezing them. Store them in a mesh bag — and in a cool, dry place — for about two weeks. While you’re waiting? Dream of pie.

On that nut-studded note, have you ever cracked pecans? If so, then you can more deeply appreciate that the average pecan pie packs between 70 and 80 of those sweet and buttery little candies. No need to mention the calories.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being.

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

Prepare to be Dazzled

On Tuesday, Nov. 8, a total lunar eclipse begins around 3 a.m. According to Smithsonian magazine, which named this celestial event one of 10 “dazzling” must-sees of 2022, the moon will appear reddish, as if “all the world’s sunrises and sunsets” are being cast upon it.

Speaking of dazzling events, here’s to hoping your Thanksgiving will be described as such. At the very least, don’t let the parsnips eclipse that homemade pie. PS

2022 Almanac Department

Almanac

October is the wisdom weaver, spinning the invisible to light, capturing the ephemeral, then letting it all go — again and again.

On this crisp autumn morning, waves of yellow leaves release themselves to the damp earth, and golden light illuminates a silver orb. Glistening with beads of dew, the spider web is a work of wonder. A series of concentric whorls and radial lines resembles the helm of an ancient ghost ship; the thumbprint of an unseen giant; a chandelier turned sideways. Dripping like crystals from tidy spirals of silk, hundreds of water droplets hold within them tiny worlds of ever-shifting beauty and light. Until the dew dries, each leaf falls 1,000 times. Until the dew dries, a hidden world is manifest.

The garden spider knows three things: creation, destruction and the space in-between. In other words: Nothing will last. She isn’t afraid of starting over.

In the evening, when the shadows take life and the owls cackle like witches gone mad, the black and yellow spider will swallow her own web. The same wind that sends colored leaves swirling will carry a fresh line of silk from one swaying tree to another, the bridge from which the weaver spins anew.

Tomorrow, the air will be cooler; the light, softer; the leaves, a brighter shade of gold. The spider, silent at the navel of her orb, will wait for her next cue. It’s neither time to build nor devour. And yet, the leaves continue to spill. The crows are roosting by the hundred. An invisible force is stirring, whirling at the center of all living things.

Flickering Lights

Before the first winter squash was gutted and carved to resemble a ghoulish floating head, early Irish immigrants fashioned jack-o’-lanterns from turnips and mangelwurzels (root vegetables used as fodder). Why? Tradition. And to ward off evil spirits, of course.

Have you ever seen a face hacked into a hollowed-out turnip? By comparison, our pumpkin “jacks” appear quite jolly. If you’re really trying to spook your neighbors this year, consider whittling a bushel of root veggies for the front porch. Or not.

Pumpkin Craft

Sure, you can roast the seeds (toss with oil and sea salt, then bake for 20 minutes at 350 degrees). But what of all the pumpkin guts?

If you’re one to add pumpkin to everything but the compost pile — muffins, oatmeal, waffles, cookies, soup — try making a purée. It’s like pie filling, minus all the sugar and spices. And it’s pretty simple:

First, remove the seeds (you’re roasting them anyway, right?). Next, steam the pulp until it’s tender (about 30 minutes), let cool, then use a potato masher or food processor until pulp is smooth and creamy. Freeze the excess.

Yes, a sugar pumpkin will taste better. But a carvin’ pumpkin is more fun. PS

2022 Almanac Department