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Pumpkin Blossom Special

by Anita Jacobs

I have always found something downright magnetic about pumpkins. There is, of course, the obvious beacon-like orange glow, but also the smooth texture of the skin against the fingertips, and the heft, substantial and comforting like a new baby. But there they were, pulsing like an urgent glowing quilt in the bed of the pickup, fist size undeniably cute ones jostled next to awe-inspiring and lumpy mammoths. We just flat out ignored them. Instead, we were racing home, giddy and giggling, peeking sporadically at the somewhat wilted contents of a few plastic bags. Pumpkin blossom gold.

For the last few Octobers we've been visiting a pumpkin farm called Hellericks in Plumsteadville, Pennsylvania. The 30-acre farm (seven devoted to pumpkins) opened in 1866 and is now owned by the fifth generation of the Hellerick family. As you pull off of Route 611 you are greeted with wooden cutouts of witches, baskets of colored Indian corn and pre-picked pumpkins of all sizes. There is also a palpable and childlike excitement in the air which I attribute to the fact that Hellericks is open only twice a year. The family has been waiting since the short rush of spring strawberry season to open the gates for company.

We pick up a small wagon or two and head uphill on a rutted muddy road into the fields. When our daughter Chloe was about nine months old we abandoned the cart and carried her piggyback, plunking down finally at the top to take in the view of the polka-dotted orange fields spread out below. On wobbly legs Chloe grabbed onto a pumpkin stem and hoisted herself to a standing position grinning with excitement. That pumpkin was a keeper.

"That's a big one!" Chloe called breathily over and over again last fall as she kicked up her muddy boots and ran far ahead down the rows of vines. After we had loaded down several carts with pumpkins Chloe grabbed a handle in an effort to pull the entire load through the mud by herself. With Chloe the "terrible twos" came a little early. As we sat back and waited for her to get bored with the game, Greg noticed the mass of pumpkin blossoms. It was right before Halloween and frost had been predicted, yet there were thousands of trumpet-like flowers peaking out from under the pumpkin leaves.

Leaving the pumpkin carts in the mud, we dashed from row to row collecting handfuls of blossoms, Greg shouting "Holy Moly!" Chloe squeaking, "I found one!"


The white-haired farmer at Hellerick's shrugged his shoulders and handed Greg four large plastic bags when asked if it would be ok to collect a couple of pumpkin blossoms for soup. There would be no more new pumpkins this year. When we got to the cash register, the farmers refused to take money for the blossoms. Feeling guilty, we picked up a few extra pumpkins to give to friends and headed home to plan our evening feast of Sopa de Flores y Calabaza, or pumpkin blossom soup.

A few years before Chloe was born, Greg and I traveled to Oaxaca, Mexico to experience the Dia de los Muertos or Day of the Dead celebration. While we were egged on by a friend's description of marigold garlands, puppet parades, and late night Mezcal parties in the graveyard, it was really his tales of the food that got us on the plane. It was one afternoon in the small village of Teotitlan de Valle that our friend's brother Chabba introduced us to Sopa de Flores y Calabaza. Nestled on an unlikely dusty street perused by skinny dogs and tiny children selling wooden spoons, the restaurant was world renowned for its authentic Oaxacan cooking. We ordered several dishes, but the show stopper was the local soup, thick, orange, nutty, and fragrant like summer. Sopa de Flores y Calabaza instantly became one of our favorite culinary memories.

Back at my mother's barn we assembled the ingredients. Many things were easy to find in the large supermarkets, others, less common like the poblano peppers, were still growing in the garden. We hummed along to jazz, our pet parrots munched on discarded poblano pepper seeds, and the kitchen took on rich and familiar fragrance. At last, we settled around the table to share travel memories and the last taste of summer with our daughter.

Sopa de Flores y Calabaza
2 fresh poblano chiles
11/2 tablespoons butter
1 large onion, diced
3 cups chicken broth
1 medium red or Yukon Gold potato
30 washed pumpkin blossoms
1 cup milk
1 medium zucchini, cut into ¼-inch cubes
1 ear of corn cut from the cob
1/2 cup heavy cream, crème fraiche, or sour cream
Salt to taste

Using tongs, roast the poblano peppers over a gas stove burner or grill until the skin blackens. Put the roasted peppers in a bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let sit for 10 minutes. Peel off the charred skin, cut out the seeds, and chop into ¼-inch chunks.

In a soup pot at medium heat, melt the butter and add the onion. Stir until lightly browned. Set aside 1/ 2 of the onion. Add the broth and potato. Partially cover and simmer for 20 minutes.

Cut the pumpkin blossoms in half keeping the petals and bulbous base, but discarding the flower sepals, pistils, and stem. Cut the blossoms crosswise into ¼-inch strips, including the base. Add 12 blossoms to the broth and simmer 3 minutes. Puree the mixture in a food processor and return to the pot.

Add the poblanos, milk, and reserved onion and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the zucchini and corn, followed by 12 blossoms and simmer 3 minutes. Remove from heat, stir in the cream and season with salt. Chopped the remaining pumpkin blossoms and scatter over the soup for garnish.




Hellericks Farm, Plumsteadville, PA 215-766-8388

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