The secret to carving pumpkins can be boiled down to one simple fact that you must remind yourself throughout the entire procedure: avoid all major arteries.
That’s all you need to remember. That’s all you need to be aware of. Who cares what the pumpkin looks like when you’re done. So what if it appears to have been hit by a car or attacked by rabid badgers. Don’t worry about that!
What matters is if all your limbs are still there. That the majority of your blood is still inside your body. That you haven’t skewered your spleen. Nothing — I repeat, nothing! — will ruin a holiday tradition faster than a major organ turned into a shish kabob. Or having to call in to the other room: “Honey, can you drive me to the hospital? I don’t think the kid can hold this tourniquet much longer.”
I thought of this as I sat on the floor, newspapers spread out before me and kitchen utensils scattered about. My daughter sat by my side, wide-eyed and anxious with anticipation. The poor pumpkin who was about to go under the knife shivered with fear. I wasn’t much better off myself.
It’s been years since I’ve actually carved a pumpkin. Up until now, my 3-1/2-year-old has been satisfied with painting faces on them each Halloween using non-lethal paints with dull brushes. But this year I thought she was old enough to let this pumpkin tradition get back to its roots — you know, with all that hacking, stabbing and general horror-film mutilation.
What better way to teach your young how to survive on their own than by dismembering a vegetable.
And hopefully not yourself.
“Wo. Be careful dad,” my daughter said as I presented the weapon — a large carving knife that must have looked like a samurai sword. It had a rough, serrated edge that appeared dull and therefore all-the-more dangerous. I pictured myself trying to stab the tough hide only to have it bounce back at me. Goodbye eyeball.
We had already sketched out the face across the poor squash, and the kid was now egging me on to start.
“Come on, dad, let’s go!”
I sympathized with surgeons — it must be tough making that first initial incision. Do you angle your arm this way? Do you go in slow and cautious? Do you ever worry something’s going to pop out? Do you ever close your eyes and just hope for the best?
I did. I sized up the cranial cavity and then carefully sawed off the top. There is something rather primal about carving a pumpkin. You’re essentially scalping it, removing a rather large chunk to expose its innards before scooping out the guts, which if you have any self-respect you’ll fling haphazardly across the floor.
Isn’t this great, little one? How about I quarter a pig later.
Next I eyed the eyes — not triangles, but round as the kid had specified. ROUND!?! With a dull knife! That was suicidal. Two fingertips gone for sure, I calculated.
In I went, plunging the knife deep into the pumpkin, sawing and carving my way. Then a nose — a nice triangle with only three clean edges. Then a mouth — five razor-sharp teeth poking out like jagged mountaintops.
And by the end, no injuries … well, unless you’re counting the pumpkin, who was moaning on the floor.
I must say I did a rather remarkable job for my first attempt after so many years. The eyes were perfectly round, and the teeth sharp to the touch.
We sat the little pumpkin out on the front porch with a candle and marveled at his devilish, blood-thirsty smile. He looked mean and angry, maybe because he was the only one in need of a Band-Aid this evening.