Pumpkin Patch

A little sugar and a dash of cinnamon can keep a small boy busy in the kitchen,and turn pumpkin into one of his favourite foods.

- Sam Woulidge

My mom’s attitude to children and vegetables alternated between encouragement (“If you eat all your pumpkin your hair will grow out nice and curly”) and punishment (“If you don’t eat your pumpkin then you’re not leaving this table”).

I hated pumpkin, mostly because my ma did not adhere to the old-fashioned Afrikaans school of culinary philosophical thought, namely that life was bitter, so vegetables should be sweet. There was never any sugar sprinkled on our pumpkin. Or on our carrots. Nor on our gem squash. And definitely not on our mielies. Vegetables were steamed and lightly salted. Buttered if we were being indulged. Even sweet potatoes – the very name insists on them being served sweet – were served in their skins with only blobs of butter for company. But on very rare, very special occasions, pumpkin became party fare when it was fried into plump fritters and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. I remember these pampoenkoekies well because when they did make their sweet appearance,I ate them without complaining, focusing instead on the cinnamon sugar-to-pumpkin ratio and imagining them to be a sort of vegetable consolation prize, since pancakes were obviously not on offer.