Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Somewhere along the line—no one’s exactly sure when—a perfectly good, edible, vitamin-rich pumpkin went from being a hearty meal to a hollowed-out decoration left to rot on suburban porches. Once upon a time, this noble gourd fed entire villages through cold autumn nights. Now it’s been demoted to an overgrown lantern with a goofy grin, sacrificed to the gods of seasonal décor and social media aesthetics.

The irony is rich—richer than a pumpkin bisque. Every October, we collectively descend on pumpkin patches like a swarm of decorative locusts, choosing the biggest, roundest, most photogenic fruit we can find (yes, fruit). We bring it home, stab it gleefully, scoop out its guts, and place a candle in its hollowed corpse to watch it slowly collapse in on itself. Meanwhile, the same supermarkets that sell us the pumpkins also host food drives to help families who don’t have enough to eat.

Originally, carving turnips and later pumpkins had a practical and superstitious purpose. The Irish carved “Jack-o’-lanterns” to ward off evil spirits—a kind of autumnal home security system before ADT came along. But once the tradition sailed across the Atlantic, it found bigger, juicier pumpkins and became a lot more about creativity and Instagram likes than spirits. We’ve since turned this ancient folklore into a billion-dollar industry of scented candles, themed lattes, and limited-edition everything.

Imagine, though, the pumpkin’s perspective. It spends months growing in the field, basking in the late-summer sun, dreaming perhaps of becoming a soup, a pie, or maybe a comforting stew. Then October hits, and instead of being simmered and savored, it’s gutted for aesthetics. A short-lived porch celebrity. A decaying monument to human whimsy.

We could roast the seeds, puree the flesh, make a dozen pies, and still have leftovers to share. But instead, we let them melt into a mushy, fly-attracting pile of regret by November 3rd. And yet, we’ll do it again next year—because it’s tradition, because it’s fun, and because nothing says “celebrating the harvest” like wasting part of it.

So here’s a modest proposal: this fall, carve one pumpkin for the spirit of Halloween—but cook another in the spirit of humanity. Make soup. Bake bread. Feed a neighbor. Let’s remind ourselves that this big orange squash once symbolized abundance, not Instagram-worthy decomposition. After all, a jack-o’-lantern’s smile might light the night—but a shared meal actually warms the soul.