Quest for Pumpkins

Last weekend, I went squash hunting with friends Bruce and Robin. We also brought R's adorable boys, Jacob and Johnny, because what is a trip to a pumpkin patch without a couple of beards? A lot less awkward, that's what.

We started at an out-of-the-way corn maze. One that had that mom-n-pop feel. Actually, more like a mom-don't-keep-your-eye-off-pop-because-he's-chatting-up-the-younger-ladies joint, to be more accurate. But it had an abandoned truck out front, a rickety barn and probably Boo Radley in the attic. Score.

Despite these humble signs, the corn maze was really pretty good. There was enough real estate to spook the kids (yes, Robin is that kind of mom - meaning: my kind of mom). Then we got lost and Bruce had to blast us a new path - yes, we're those kind of maze-goers.

After a quick stop at Duarte's, wondrous home of artichoke soup and ollalieberry pie, we found the pumpkin patch of my childhood dreams. It was more like a theme park with a haunted house, huge-ass hay bale maze (open for p.m. flashlight tours), hayrides, pony rides. In. Sane. And of course, there was the veritable river of pumpkins.

The kids got a wagon of jack-worthy squash, I got one shaped like Nixon's head and we all got that old-timey autumnalness of the central coast. I also got a loaf of artichoke bread to go with my Sunday night martini.