Oddly enough, whenever I think about pumpkin bread, I don’t think about pumpkins. The orange vegetable that people carve for Halloween does not come to mind. Instead, I picture Libby’s pumpkin puree. A delicious item with the texture of mashed potatoes that mixes with cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg, and bakes into an excuse to eat dessert for breakfast. When an image of an actual pumpkin pops into my head, with the pale seeds and stringy guts in all their glory, I marvel at its transformation. The humble squash goes from rags to riches, from a vegetable to a treat that’s more like a cake than bread.
When I was younger, my dad used to bake pumpkin bread all the time. He would stockpile cans of Libby’s in the pantry. Whenever I unloaded the weekend’s groceries, the perfect slices of pumpkin pie jumped out at me from the orange can wrappers. When I came home on Saturday evenings, a new loaf awaited my consumption. It sat on the kitchen table shielded by tinfoil, like a present I itched to unwrap. Those Sunday mornings were always a treat for me. My dad woke up bright and early, but what finally got me out of bed was the thought of my breakfast. I always made sure to cut a thick slice and slather it with butter before microwaving it. Tiny tendrils of steam floated up from the craggy surface. As I sat down to enjoy the meal, my dad briefly looked up from his reading to say good morning, and smiled upon seeing the plate in my hands. “It’s really good,” I responded when he asked for feedback.
There was always something special about my dad making the bread from scratch. I admired the time he took to gather the ingredients and blend them into something we could share. It wasn’t just about having something sweet to eat in the morning. Even though my dad cooked dinner for me all the time, we both had established breakfast routines. For him, it was a slice of toast with peanut butter each day, almost without fail. I liked to pick a dish and stick to it for a few months at a time. It could be anything from cereal to smoothies to egg-and-cheese sandwiches. The bread waiting on the table on a random Sunday morning allowed us to give in and deviate from our routines, just this once, to come together in a new way.
I learned that as I took on the task for myself. When my dad was too engrossed in reading books or articles to bake on the weekends, I busied myself with making the batter. My favorite part was smoothly scooping the puree out of the can and watching it slide into the glass bowl. I loved dusting in the spices. As a treat to myself, I added some chocolate chips to the top of the loaf. My dad would not have preferred such decoration, but it was something I added for myself up until I came to college.
I cherished pumpkin bread as a slice of home when I returned to school after fall break last year. The loaf was my trophy for all my efforts in lounging around the house, enjoying home-cooked meals as I wrapped myself in blankets and let my eyes glaze over in front of the TV. Back in my dorm on a gloomy October morning, I retrieved my prize from the fridge. I gingerly peeled away the tinfoil to reveal the golden brown dome of bread. The sweet smell of the cinnamon and the sprinkling of chocolate chips fought off my sleep deprivation. With an unexpected burst of energy, I adorned my desk, the only thing reminiscent of a table in my compact double, with my breakfast spread. Paper plates and stolen plastic utensils from the dining hall would have to do. Strawberries and blueberries glistened appetizingly. I served myself a generous portion of the bread and remembered to spread a decent layer of butter before heating it up. Finally, I was ready to eat.
After weeks of rushing to finish my dining hall cereal in the mornings before class, it was a relief to have a Sunday morning with baked goods from home. My wooden desk chair could hardly replace the comfy couch on which I usually ate, but the warm meal deterred any other complaints. I had brought this piece of home with me. The smallest loaf of bread reminded me of all the mornings my dad and I had together. And even though I had made this particular loaf myself, before leaving, I still thought of the hours that my dad had taken out of his busy weekends to bake for us. As I spent that October morning hunched over my desk and looking out at the gray sky, I was far from home. But just as my dad and I interrupted our rigid routines for a treat, I knew that I could always take a moment to remember that home was never too many miles away to bring a slice of it with me. Even if it was in bread form.
Cover photo courtesy of Greatist.