Pie

A person can bake a lot of things with just one ingredient, even if the

 ingredient isn’t conventional, like pumpkins! You can make a standard pumpkin

pie, pumpkin meringue pie, pumpkin bread, pumpkin puree, pumpkin muffins,

You see where I’m getting at here?

Pumpkin tarts, pumpkin cheesecakes, pumpkin bundt cakes, pumpkin cupcakes

I mean I could go on for hours!

What I’m trying to say is— you can be so creative, so…crafty.

The season is fall right now, so everyone is in a festive mood for Halloween, and

one way I like to spend my spooky night is by hacking away in the kitchen creating

all kinds of tasty treats for the trick-or-treaters— did I mention that I have the

sweetest little kids in my neighborhood, I love every year when they come into my

porch excited for the treats I’ve prepared for them each year.

You’d be surprised how particular kids can be about flavor. Some like things

sweeter, some prefer a little spice, a little bite. I like to think I’ve got a good sense

for balance — what needs a pinch more sugar, what needs a touch more salt. It’s all

about listening to your ingredients, really. They tell you what they need if you pay

close enough attention.

That’s what makes baking special. It’s not just mixing and measuring — it’s a

relationship. You get to know the texture, the scent, the way it reacts under your

hands. You can tell when it’s fresh, when it’s tender, when it’s ready. I’ve spent

years perfecting that sense. Some might call it instinct. I call it refined talent.

I remember last Halloween, the air so cold you could see your breath. The porch

light kept flickering, and I nearly burned the crust on the first batch because I was

too busy watching the leaves collect at the doorstep. Funny how they pile up in the

same place every year, like they know where to go. The kids didn’t mind waiting,

though. They never do. They always say my treats taste better when they’re fresh

out of the oven.

Lately, though, the parents have been getting fussy about it. They say the kids

I shouldn’t be waiting out so long on my porch, especially after dark. Some even

complain that I keep them too late — that I “take my time.”

I try not to take it personally. People don’t always understand the patience good

baking requires. You can’t just rush a recipe because someone’s getting cold feet

on the sidewalk. Besides, the little ones never seem to mind. They’re so eager,

always asking when their turn will come. I tell them soon — that good things take

time, and the wait will be worth it. They always nod, so trusting, clutching their

candy buckets like it’s a promise.

Still, every year there’s at least one parent who comes knocking, all huff and worry,

asking if I’ve seen their child. I tell them the same thing I always do — that they

must’ve gone home another way, that I’m sure they’ll turn up soon enough. It’s

funny how easily people accept reassurance when it’s offered with a smile.

You learn a lot about people when you feed them. What they crave, what they hide,

what they think no one notices. Sometimes I think the whole town has gotten

spoiled — they expect me to keep giving, year after year, as if sweetness grows on

trees. It doesn’t. It takes work. It takes sacrifice.

Last Halloween was especially busy. So many little faces at my door, so many

hungry eyes. I ran out of my usual supply faster than expected, but I couldn’t turn

anyone away. Not when they’d waited so patiently. I remember how quiet the street

got after the last group left, how the wind sounded like laughter fading into the

dark.

I stayed up late that night cleaning, wrapping what was left, putting everything

away neat and careful. Waste is the real sin, after all — my mother always said

that. I like to think she’d be proud of me for keeping the tradition alive.

It’s almost Halloween again, and I’ve already chosen my ingredient of the year.

Bradford Alfaro

He caught my attention the first time he stopped by the bakery.

He had the kind of charm that makes people linger — polite smile, easy

conversation, eyes that notice everything.

The sort of man who thinks he’s sampling the world, not realizing the world is

sampling him.

I watched the way he studied the pastries in the glass case, weighing them like

decisions.

That’s when I knew: he’d make a perfect addition to my collection of recipes —

not for what he was, but for what he represented.

Confidence, sweetness, a touch of bitterness underneath.

Every season needs a flavor like that.

So I wrote his name down in my little book, right between “cinnamon warmth” and

“cider tang”.

Just a note, a reminder of the taste I’m chasing this year.