You can’t escape it. It’s everywhere. Pumpkin spiced latte, pumpkin spice bread, pumpkin spice air freshener, pumpkin spice candles, pumpkin spice deodorant. No. Seriously. How did we get here?
It started out innocently enough. Ahhh. The aroma and harbinger of Fall. Pumpkin spices equal pumpkin pies equal Thanksgiving. “Pumpkin spice” is basically the same spice mix as that used in apple pie: ground cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, plus extra ginger and clove.
Pumpkin by itself is pretty bland and not particularly aromatic. No one has ever proclaimed, “Oh you smell as lovely as a ripe pumpkin,” or picked up a pumpkin and gushed, “This pumpkin smells soooo divine!”
With such a lackluster leading star, pumpkin pies just demand more spices than apple pies. The pumpkin pie spices predominate. They become the de facto star of the pie, a coup d’état over the vapid pumpkin. Later at some point the word “pie” got dropped because, well, you know, it isn’t really about pies anymore. And that’s the genesis of pumpkin spice.
The spice world stayed dull for a while until Starbucks decided to make pumpkin spice lattes. They were so wildly popular that shortages ensued. Then all hell broke loose and copy-catters rushed to pumpkin spice everything nice. Good grief.
The ubiquitous pumpkin spice we see and smell today is but a shell of the original cinnamon-ginger-allspice-clove. It’s fake Franken-spice, more powerful than its earlier incarnation, created in a secret lab by white coat wearing flavor scientists. It’s stronger and longer lasting. It screams in all caps: “I AM PUMPKIN SPICE AND I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!” It’s an aberration. An abomination. And it’s in freaking everything.
Last week someone spilled an entire cup of pumpkin spice latte in the stairwell of the parking garage in Reston Town Center and just left the whole mess there. We had to gingerly step over pools of pumpkin-spiciness slowly oozing down the steps. The enclosed stairwell made the pungent faux pumpkin spices all the more unbearable. It was not a good beginning to date night.
When we returned to the garage after dinner the mess was mopped up but the steps were still sticky from the sugary pumpkin-ness. And the stairwell was rank with the fake sweet smell of pumpkin spice.
“I bet this fake pumpkin spice smell will still be here next week,” I said to hubby. And it was. A week later it was date night again and we parked in the same garage, in his favorite parking space, and descended the same stairwell. The acrid smell of pumpkin spice and sour milk seeped out of the walls and enveloped us.
“I bet if I drank a pumpkin spice latte every day, when I die my body will still smell like pumpkin spice a year later,” I said. “Especially if I use that pumpkin spice deodorant too. Or maybe I’ll smell like burnt pumpkin spice if I’m cremated. What do you think?” Hubby did not find my pumpkin-spiced dead body to be an appropriate subject to discuss on date night. Especially before dinner.
Speaking of dinner – we had a lovely fall dinner: pumpkin filled raviolis with sage brown butter. I detected a hint of nutmeg in the dish but nothing on the level of pumpkin spiciness. The featured beer on tap? Pumpkin spice IPA. No, thanks. The featured dessert? Yep. Pumpkin spice cheesecake. I passed. Next week is Thanksgiving. An orgy of pumpkin spices await at every relatives’ tables. I don’t see pumpkin spices going away any time soon. Until maybe Spring. Let’s hope.
