October is our anniversary.  We have been married over thirty years.  We may be in the autumn of our life, but inside we feel like teenagers.  My sweetie calls me Punkin, probably because my hair was orange when I was younger.

Or maybe the reason is the story about the pumpkin pie.  You don't want to hear it, do you?  Every time someone brings it up, I turn the same color as a pumpkin.  Well, all right... if you insist.

The autumn of my senior year in high school, I had a boyfriend named David.  He had gorgeous brown eyes and an old rattletrap car.  David was a mother's dream come true.  He was polite and always brought me home on time. 

David did one thing that bugged me but pleased everyone else.  He liked to bake pumpkin pies, and he brought me one every time he came to our house that month of October.  The pumpkin filling was scrumptious, but his piecrust was soggy and stuck to the bottom of the pan.  Besides who was this guy trying to show up?  I am the girl.  I am the one who is supposed to be winning his heart through his stomach.

Not to be outdone by a man, I decided to make a pumpkin pie from scratch --no canned pumpkin for me.  I was going to get a whole pumpkin, dig out the innards, and make it into a pie.  How?  I didn't know.

"I'm as smart as any farm boy," I thought.

The outside of a pumpkin doesn't come with a recipe.  So, I telephoned my Aunt Reba. 

"Have you got a recipe for pumpkin pie?" I asked.

As she dictated, I wrote down the ingredients and directions.  Then I jumped up to start my project. 

I dug out the seeds and gunk from the middle.  I scooped out the raw pumpkin with a spoon and a sharp knife.  I cooked it in a large kettle until the orange chunks were soft and mushy.

"Hey, it looks just like the pumpkin from a can," I thought.

I carefully measured the pumpkin, and I had enough for four pies.  I prepared my flaky piecrust and baked the empty shells in the oven until they were light golden brown.

I mixed the pumpkin with the sugar and spices, and then added the evaporated milk.

"This looks yummy." I thought.

The aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled the house as the pies baked in the oven.  My whole family was hanging around the kitchen waiting for the first taste. 

"Nobody can eat any until David gets here," I insisted.

The four pies set cooling on the table while I stood guard over them.  "Oh, all right," I conceded.  "We'll cut up one pie now."

I took one piece of the pie, and turned it over.  Just as I thought, the piecrust was flaky and firm.  I smiled in triumph.

Then my Dad got this pained expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Taste this," he shoved a fork full of pie at me.

"Ewww... yuk! " I squeal.  "This is awful."

"I think it has too much salt," Dad says.

"Too much salt!?  How could that be?  I followed Aunt Reba's recipe to the letter."

"Let me see that," Mom asks. I hand her my notes.  "Eight teaspoons of salt?  Did you put in eight teaspoons of salt for each pie?"

That did sound a bit much, but I was working in large quantities, so I did not question it.  I called up Aunt Reba and asked,

"Did the recipe call for 8 teaspoons of salt?"

"No, an eighth teaspoon of salt," and then she laughed.

The pies looked so gorgeous that nobody would believe that they were inedible.  Everyone that came by had to have a taste of the oversalted dessert.  And every time I had to endure the laughs and jabs at my cooking.

That was over thirty years ago, and I still have not lived it down.  Anyone who mentions pumpkins just has to hear about the time that Pamela put eight teaspoons of salt in one pun'kin pie.