欧宝娱乐

“Jasmine stopped at the entrance of Sutton Place Gourmet and sniffed. Pumpkin. She could smell the gourds from where she stood. A good start. Let's see. She sniffed again. A bit of thyme. Not sage. Thyme. Her brain stretched and shook the cobwebs away. Ummm, pumpkin braised until meltingly soft, mashed with mascarpone and spread between thin layers of fresh pasta... a delicate cream sauce infused with thyme. Would it work? A touch of very, very slowly cooked and mellow garlic. That would be the trick. Dash of nutmeg. Yes. Jasmine was salivating as she pushed her cart toward the vegetable section.
Freshly spritzed vegetables lay glistening in brightly colored rows. Cabbage of cobalt blue, fern-green fresh dill, and cut pumpkin the color of riotous caramel. Jasmine rubbed her hands together. Autumn was a favorite season for her. Most cooks preferred spring and summer, yearning for fresh bites of flavor after a dark, heavy winter. The fragrant tomatoes, the bright bursting berries, the new spring vegetables as lively and adorable as new lambs. But Jasmine yearned for the rich tastes of the earth. She was a glutton for root vegetables, simmered in stocks, enriched with butter and dark leafy herbs. She imagined them creamy, melting on her tongue, the nutrients of the rich soil infusing her blood.”
― Nina Killham, How to Cook a Tart

“I don鈥檛 know about you, but I can鈥檛 wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I鈥檓 about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it鈥檚 gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is鈥攆ucking fall. There鈥檚 a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I鈥檓 going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, 鈥淎ren鈥檛 those gourds straining your neck?鈥� And I鈥檓 just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, 鈥淚t鈥檚 fall, fuckfaces. You鈥檙e either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you鈥檙e not.鈥�

Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff鈥檙ent Strokes鈥攕pecifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn鈥檛 it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they鈥檙e both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that鈥檚 upsetting, but I鈥檓 not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

The next thing I鈥檓 going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I鈥檓 going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it鈥檚 not summer, it鈥檚 not winter, and it鈥檚 not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it鈥檚 fall, fuckers.

Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well, then you鈥檙e going to fucking love my house. Just look where you鈥檙e walking or you鈥檒l get KO鈥檇 by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you鈥檙e going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.

Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!”
― Colin Nissan, It's Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers