How to roast a pumpkin in 21 easy steps

When our produce share from the corner grocery included a “pie pumpkin” two days before Thanksgiving, I considered carving a passive aggressive note into its side and returning it to their organic doorstep. Aint Nobody Got Time for That came to mind.

But then a sweet coworker assured me that roasting a pumpkin wasn’t hard at all. You just slice off the stem (so it doesn’t catch on fire!) and wait until the molten squash cools before peeling it (so you don’t burn your hand off!). I smiled and nodded because, yes, pumpkin bread sounded delicious. Here is what I’ve learned about the real steps for roasting a pumpkin:

1. Read about it on the internet for at least 30 minutes and realize that your coworker’s method of slicing the pumpkin AFTER it’s cooked is unconventional. Decide to trust a swaggering food blogger lady instead.  

2. Take pumpkin away from its decorative home near the desiccated corn stalks and acorn squash you’ll never eat.

3. Rinse off your pumpkin. Because dirt.

4. Take out the only sharp knife in your butcher block, the carving knife meant for meat but used for pretty much any purpose that requires a sharp knife. Think about how you own that electric knife sharpener but the directions are 20 pages long.

5. Stick knife in pumpkin to cut off the stem. Feel the knife get stuck and wonder if a) this is worth losing a finger over or b) this is worth your husband losing a finger over.

6. Persist in solitude. Husband is relaxing in the living room and hates carving pumpkins. Use a sawing motion and mutter swears a lot. Finally, in a knife-wielding move that would make your mother grimace, fling the stem free of its body. It will promptly fall sticky-side down on the floor, and you’ll do a crappy job wiping up after it. Remember this next week when stepping into that spot on the floor and wanting to blame someone else.

7. Now, at least, you have a flat, stemless side to the heavy orb. Place with that side down (you are a culinary genius!) slice it in two, wondering again about the risk vs. reward of losing digits. Remember, in a flashback, that cans of pumpkin were on sale this morning at Whole Foods for less than $3. Maybe even less than $2. At Whole Foods. Don’t let this sink it too long.

8. Pry the squash apart and face with the alien insides of stringy, seedy mess. Remember how, growing up carving Halloween pumpkins, your mother never saved the seeds for roasting. Because her time was worth something. Set this thought aside and scoop the insides into a bowl. Your time isn’t worth as much.

9. As you’re scraping and it’s getting wetter and sort of nauseating, think about what a great job you’re doing dealing with this mess. One day, you’re going to be such a great parent dealing with all of that snot and poop and other grossness! Keep scraping. Decide this isn’t anything like having kids, and it’s ok to hate this. Pumpkins aren’t cute and can’t be taught to laugh at Mommy’s jokes.

10. Pause to write a blog post and do a bad, last-minute job of trying to photograph it with your phone. Get pumpkin guts on your phone, leave them there.  

11. Slice the pumpkin again and put it in the oven. Nearly burn yourself shoving it between the oven racks that are too close together. Curse more.

12. Praise yourself silently for not dragging your husband into this misadventure.

13. Look at those seeds again. Decide to pick through the stringy guts to save them. Feel yourself disassociating because it feels so much like a giant bowl of snot. Think about the concept of the abject to distract yourself. It’s the only time knowing this concept has come in handy since grad school. Appreciate that.

14. Sit down and write this post. Then google how to roast pumpkin seeds. Notice the stickiness from the pumpkin didn’t get off your hands entirely and now is melting to your laptop.

15. Pull the pumpkin out of the oven, looking suspiciously at how dry it is. Think of your smart coworker and how you should have listened to her instead of some random woman from the internet.

16. Leave the pumpkin to cool while you go see the new Hunger Games movie. Come home feeling like we should all be raging against the machine, not cooking dinner.

17. Cook dinner, still giving the wrinkly wedges the side eye.

18. Roast the pumpkin seeds in olive oil, salt and a little bit of cumin at 325 for 25 minutes, stirring half way through. Start eating them right as they come out, burning your face but deciding this is certainly the most delicious part of the whole damn squash.

 

19. Four hours after it’s cooked, decide it’s finally time to peel and puree the pumpkin. Wonder if this would have been much easier if the squash was still warm or not apparently shriveled up.

20. Bring out the food processor for the second time in two years and puree the cubes of pumpkin. Notice it isn’t working, not at all, and add a bunch of water. This helps. Then measure you’ve made 7 cups of pumpkin puree, which is more than you’ll need in a lifetime.

21. Freeze most of it and resign yourself to baking the next day. Or next week. Whatever. Sit down and drink a beer, eat those pumpkin seeds and be grateful that you didn’t lose a limb and weren’t sent to the arena to battle your peers to the death.