“I visited the
pumpkin patch yesterday and decided to bring home a pumpkin that in
shape appeared to be a penguin. Friends and family were mystified until I
started painting him.“by Volensblood
It’s Narvin
You spelled Frobisher wrong.
Okay, so here’s the story about the pumpkins:
My friend got married yesterday and we missed the wedding because of work but we made it to the reception. Because its mid-September and the reception was in a nature center (awesome!) there was a little bit of a fall theme. Not overbearingly, but the tables all had these tiny pumpkins.
So they’re cleaning up at the end of it and we’re still hanging out because we haven’t seen these people in forever and we can talk until three in the morning when we get together. All of a sudden, the Maid of Honor hands us a tiny pumpkin.
“Take one.”
“Um… okay?”
“Take another.”
“….?”
“It is my duty as Maid of Honor to make sure that the guests leave with an uncomfortable number of tiny pumpkins.”
So it turns out that she’d gotten a bunch of them for a Halloween party last year and after the party was over her mom threw them into the compost heap thinking that would be the end of it. But what she didn’t seem to realize was that if you put pumpkins in a compost heap- it grows more pumpkins. It grows pumpkins exponentially. Serious mathematical anomaly pumpkins.
So this year she has even more tiny pumpkins and she figured it would be a good idea to have them as decor for the reception. BUT- she would still have to throw them out at the end of the day and no matter where you throw them you are doomed to have a ridiculous amount of tiny pumpkins growing SOMEWHERE at your fault.
So everyone left with at least two tiny pumpkins and that’s how we made friends with the Maid of Honor.
So I forgot about it and then the next morning I woke up and found these two tiny pumpkins in my purse and had a puzzling moment of ‘what?’
We were invited to the Maid of Honor’s house the other day so we could:
- take some of the flowers off her hands
- help with some post-wedding stuff
- watch the presidential debate
- play Clue for like three hours
- drink a lot of booze.
And there are just… tiny pumpkins EVERYWHERE.
They were in the bathroom.
At the end of the night, I counted 26 tiny pumpkins, and that was just what I could see.
It happened again.
Three pumpkins ended up in my purse this time.
One of them has a face.
I need to stop drinking with this woman.
this is getting out of hand.
Okay so I finally had a day off and decided that the best way to handle the pumpkin situation was to eat them and muffins sounded fucking fantastic. But I found out really fast that most recipes call for a ‘can’ of pureed pumpkin and I don’t have a scale to go by. So I figured that I had six pumpkins, it would probably amount to something like one can, right?
Well… no.
It ended up being something like two and a half cans-ish. And that’s a really rough estimate. Turns out there’s a lot more meat on those things than you think there’d be. So I figured I could do something like double it and then make a half batch.
But then I ran out of sugar. I mis-measured the baking soda. I only had whole cloves, so I had to grind them down and had to estimate how much I needed. I couldn’t find the liquid measure.
I’m mixing up this giant bowl of pumpkin batter goo thinking shit shit shit this is going to be a mess. There’s no way anyone is going to be able to eat these things. And there’s no muffin cups. But I already made it this far and I’m stubborn as hell so in the oven they go.
I… kind of… forgot about them? Woops!
Place starts smelling like Yankee Candle and I’m like SHIT. Get over to the oven and…
they’re…
….somehow perfect?
Maybe a little dry, but they’re fucking delicious. Fucking magic pumpkins. Truly I am a witch.
So the moral of the story is that if life gives you tiny pumpkins, make them into muffins and give them right back.
Also roast the seeds because hell yeah.
Happy Halloween, everyone!
We’ve found her in real life guys
An actul fictional character in real life
she even baked with them
This is not the only evidence posed to me that I might, in fact, be a fictional character.