Moose in the Kitchen

Halloween is one of my favorite times of year. Mainly because it gives me an excuse to steal candy from children. (By stealthily removing the dark chocolate Dove morsels from the pantry, days before any trick-or-treaters are scheduled to appear.) (Not by holding a six-year-old to the ground so I can wrench the orange plastic pumpkin from her flailing hands.) (Just to clear that up.)

Halloween is also season o’ the pumpkin party. We were ready for this party. We prepared for days, like boy scouts heading into the wilderness with sleeping bags, band-aids, and back issues of Playboy. We had fried pumpkin seeds and candy corn, lasagna and celery root gratin, butternut squash soup and more salad than a pack of rabid vegetarians could eat in a week. We simmered autumn-y drinks on the flame-throwing stove – mulled wine and cider – and slaved over homemade pumpkin pies. We bought pumpkins for ourselves (wasted on me because, thanks to multiple glasses of the sweet sweet wine, I totally forgot what the point of the party was), pumpkins for other people, small hack saws for carving, and a large plastic sheet to shield the new white couch from flying pumpkin guts. I strung skull lights around the food and placed a bloody knife in the bath tub for ambiance. We even had the dog trained to trot up to people and use her nose to poke them firmly in the crotch to let them know they were welcome and loved.

I admit that I was unbearably smug. Especially for someone who didn’t do any of the cooking, because she was too busy breaking in the new couch and fanning her flushed cheeks. With peacock feathers. I did surface occasionally to taste soup and shriek “MORE SALT!” and “LESS SALT!” and “No, really. TAKE OUT THE SALT.” The salt quotient was fine by the way. I just like to expand my capacity for obnoxious behavior. It’s like training for a marathon.

What didn’t we have? POWER TOOLS. Luckily, Leah and Simon understand that no pumpkin party is complete without drunk people wielding electric saws on a white couch.

Catwalker, Simon, Sean and Leah.

It’s a testament to their grace and skill that I didn’t find a bloody pinky finger under the counter the next day. I would have given the pumpkin power saw a whirl, but my hand is still healing from last week’s Butter Knife Incident.

I hope you enjoyed that shot, because it’s the only one from my camera that doesn’t look like it’s been smeared by a drunken, quivering hand. Which, to be honest, is pretty much what happened. Observe.

The charming Holly and me. Strangely befuzzed, thanks to brandy-laced wine and cunning avoidance of the handy manual that explains all the little buttons on my camera. Please note Holly’s beautiful necklace and my fuzzy cat ears. Well, they claim to be cat ears, but make me resemble nothing so much as Meeka Dog on high alert.

Related posts:

1. The Dog, She Is (Less) Scarred (Than I Hoped)
2. Dear Musicians Who Live Behind Me,
3. Christmas Gifts at Chez Moose
4. What I’ve Done With Unemployment So Far
5. Next Up, Drinking Red Wine and Gesticulating Wildly