I left work on the late side tonight, exhausted after a long day of fielding client calls, ruminating about the Alito nomination (short version: I dunno), and being trained in the new electronic case filing procedures, all of which diverted my time and attention from the essential task of fine-tuning a legally complicated and factually bizarre brief. Sweet Steve picked me up at the bus stop, saving me from having to brave the dark and frustrating home stretch and greeting me with a kiss and a mischievous grin. When I walked into the house, delicious cooking smells greeted me, along with a beautifully set table*, a lovely bottle of wine, and two little white pumpkins resting alongside a carving kit.
I handed out candy to the neighborhood trick-or-treaters while Steve finalized dinner. Then we sat down to grilled salmon marinated in my homemade pesto, accompanied by Steve's signature basil-lemon orzo. We washed it all down with a glass (or two) of nicely chilled French white, served in the gimongous Riedel glasses that were reason enough for which to wed.
After this romantic and relaxing interlude, we spread newsprint over the dining room table and set to work on our pumpkin creations. Steve's efforts initially took a political bent, as he plopped his gourd on a photo of Dubya and proceeded to defile it with mushy strands and slippery seeds. He seemed to have a clear carving vision, slicing and sawing and chiseling with a determined set to his jaw.
Meanwhile, my pumpkin seemed to be sprouting new layers of mush even as I scooped, so that it seemed I would never have a smooth enough interior to begin to carve.
I was still scraping and scooping when Steve revealed his masterpiece:
I am intimidated enough by artistic endeavors without having to follow such an impressive lead. I hemmed and hawed (and whined), trying desperately to come up with something, ANYTHING that might match the creative cheekiness and masterful execution of my partner's pumpkin. Eventually, I yanked a pattern from the carving kit, tried half-heartedly to recreate it on my tiny pumpkin, and made a pathetic attempt at clever customization. I wound up with this:
Alas, my oeuvre bore a closer resemblance to a spider than a cat, its aesthetics further compromised by a mess of pumpkin-zits and crayon. Its namesake hovered in the living room wanting nothing to do with the gooey mess on the table.
Finally, I conceded defeat and plopped my cat-o-lantern outside (where Steve graciously allowed it to share porch space with his superior effort). Both pumpkins looked quite lovely once they were glowing with candlelight in the darkness, and even my pathetic spider-cat seemed (almost) worthy of gracing the Halloween night.
To top off his romantic efforts for the evening (at least so far), Steve dove back into the pile of pumpkin and spent nearly an hour separating the seeds from the strings.
I will roast the former tomorrow, and turn the latter into bread or pie later in the week.
'twas a very happy Halloween, indeed.
*This is actually a photo of LAST night's beautifully set table, when we had my parents over for dinner and inaugurated our new china, my grandmother's silver, and assorted other shiny pretty new things. I had intended to chronicle the dinner in photographs from start to finish, particularly because it included my first (and highly successful! so not last!) homemade pasta effort, but somehow all I remembered to take was the table shot.