(Mrs P’s opening holiday volley. She is a good neighbor and doesn’t yell much. Photo Socotra).

I had spied several trees trussed up within an inch of their lives atop SUVs coming back from Refuge Farm. The stores along Rt. 29 were all selling piney things, and it looked like the season was getting serious. Traffic was light, and I imagined the residents of Opal and Warrenton and Gainesville were staying close to home and decorating for Christmas.

After parking the Panzer in the garage, I took the elevator up to look at the Saturday mail- a task we won’t be doing much longer- and then went on to the 4th Floor to trudge down the corridor toward my unit. The weekend had been good and productive. Projects done. A one-floor living plan established at Refuge Farm with a nice and comfy bed and some of the junk moved out to make things flow better.

I was looking to finish editing the tribute issue of the magazine to account for Mac’s departure, but life got in the way again. Fumbling for the big key chain, I saw that Miss P across the hall had got a jump on my. Her wreath was affixed to the door-knocker, and I realized the opening salvo in the holiday wars had begun.

I put down my backpack and went to the front closet and found my wreath. There are strict regulations about how our plain beige doors may be decorated. Nothing may project into the corridor, and wreaths may only be hung on hangers that fit over the top of the door, or from the existing hardware. The Condo Board is hell on deviationists.

I looked up into the dim recesses of the closet. The miniature pine tree was next to it on the top shelf, next to the miniature hay-bale that should have gone with the pumpkin static display for the dining table. I took the two green fake piney-things down and left the hay for next fall.

(The Socotra response. Understated but elegant. Photo Socotra).

The wreath was a piece of cake- I got it at the Methodist Church shortly after the tides of fortune washed me up on the shores of Big Pink. I opened the door and wrapped the wire hanger around the knocker on the brass eagle on the door. Voila! Miss P’s opening volley  was answered and nothing was projecting into the hall.

(Fa La La La, La. Photo Socotra.)

Then I carried the micro tree over to the dining table and picked up the pumpkin by the stem and replaced it with the mini-pine.

The lights were already up since I never took them down, and presto, the decorating was done for the season.

I carried the pumpkin like an orange bowling ball in the crook of my arm and wandered outside. It would be fun, I thought, to be completely irresponsible to drop it down the four floors to Big Tony’s patio on the first floor to make a satisfying “splat” on the concrete.

(Big Pink under refurbishment. Photo Socotra).

I enjoyed the thought for a moment, looking at the progress the restoration crew was making on the main wing of Big Pink’s Western Front. It is impressive, what the men have done. They are scouring the old white paint off the balconies and exposed concrete and dolling up the dusty-mauve brickwork, custom-selected by the legendary Francis Freed who first conceived the Continental style architecture of the building.

They are coming for me in the next wave, which means cleaning off the balcony to permit the ninja-workers to access the space and sand it down to bare concrete. Next week? I mused. Or will they stall out for the winter season?

The orange sphere in my arms was hefty, and I thought for a moment about the sound it would make, bouncing around the trash chute. Wait, I thought. “Waste not, want not.”

Dinner had to be accommodated, and why not make some pumpkin soup and bake it in the shell? And in preparation there would be all those wonderful pumpkin seeds. What the hell. ‘Twas the season, it was, and if the inside of the pumpkin was not rotted out, the exercise might be fun. It would be local food, too.

I cut a lid in the orange ball and sniffed suspiciously. It seemed fine. I scooped out the brains- the orange stringy tendril and a fine harvest of white oblong seeds.

I melted some fresh creamery butter and got out a cookie sheet and shook the moist seeds around in a little butter and garnished liberally with sea salt. I popped it in the oven at three fifty and started to make vegetable soup with some of the pureed pumpkin brains.

The seeds were nice and brown in twenty minutes, and I pulled them out to cool and cracked a beer after turning on the game. I nibbled on the seeds and watched enormous men crash into one another. When the celery, veggie broth, carrots, diced potatoes, onions and spices seemed to be about the right consistency, I drained the contents of the saucepan into the cavern in the pumpkin and popped it in the over at 325 for an hour.

When I began to smell something appealing, I pulled it out and ladled on some grated Pecorino Romano, a hard, hearty sheep’s milk cheese with origins in southern Italy but which came from Croftburn Farms.

When it had melted nicely, I pulled it out of the oven and sat down to dinner.

Damn, I thought. Great weekend. Not a single political thought.

Care for some soup?

If you care to try:

Ingredients:

One small pumpkin
Assorted veggies
Two 12oz cans of vegetable (or chicken) broth
Spices to taste
Pureed Pumpkin brains
Grated Pecorino Romano

Directions:

Lightly sauté the vegetables and spices. Add Pumpkin brains for color and texture. Throw in the contents of the cans of broth and bring to a simmer. Pour contents into emptied pumpkin shell while chomping on roasted pumpkin seeds. And think about whether or not a specific injunction on wine consumption during NFL games applies.

Watch large people put huge licks on one another, heedless of the possible implications of brain injury. When you smell something good coming from the kitchen, pull it out and add the grated cheese. Return to over and blast it under the broiler setting on “low.” Serve the pumpkin on a plate with fresh biscuits and creamery butter if you desire. Or not. Carbs are my enemy.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com