- April 19, 2024
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Ah, the start of fall — Florida’s finest season. It’s that magical time of year when the weather gets a quarter-of-a-degree less sticky and insufferable. Leaves gracefully go from thriving to sawdust overnight. And every eatery in the world gets infiltrated, just like by the flu or biblical plague, with the marketing juggernaut that is pumpkin spice.
You remember that scene in “Outbreak” (admit it — you only read my column for its irrelevant movie references) where Dustin Hoffman cranes his neck toward the ceiling and says, “It’s airborne”? That was me the first pumpkin spice ad I saw this month: a steaming latte, sprinkled with cinnamon, next to a monster slice of pumpkin pie — exactly what everyone craves in the summer, while they’re slimy in sun block and choking down Corona Lights.
But you better get used to it. Soon, pumpkin spice will contaminate everything.
“Oh honey, you know what would make this picatta doubly scrumptious?!” giddy wives will ask their husbands. “Why, a dash of pumpkin spice! Maybe just a sprinkle? A skoach?”
Pumpkin is so ubiquitous this time of year it seems everybody turns into even louder versions of Emeril Lagassi. “No meal is complete without a lil’ pumpkin sp— BAM! Making fish? BAM! I know what you’re thinking: ‘But Emeril, I like my fish withou—’ LESS TALK, MORE BAM!”
And sure, if this were just an isolated incident, if I only had to pretend to enjoy this culinary tourist once or twice a year like I do with, say, Christmas carolers, I could deal. But pumpkin spice has been pushing the limits of its social acceptability for far too long. Used to be, you’d only see it around Thanksgiving. But then, it invaded October.
And this year, it’s crossed the Rubicon, sieged right past the September border to infect the last few weeks of summer with its inescapable, Pigpen-like toxic cloud.
ME (to a cashier): Hi. One coffee, please?
CASHIER: Sure! But you forgot to say one pumpkin spice coffee. (She looks down at her register, starts clicking.) One ... pump ... kin—
ME: No, that’s fine. I actually prefer regular coffee, thanks.
CASHIER: (Her head explodes.)
Think about it: If we don’t deal with this crime against humanity’s palate now, what message are we sending to lesser-popular seasonal foodstuffs? Continue down this slippery slope and, next thing you know, you’re blowing out candles atop a fruit cake next birthday.
So take a lesson from eggnog, pumpkin spice: Stay where you belong. Separate but equal, that’s what I say. Christmas decorations might’ve gotten away with unveiling themselves in stores right around Spring Break these days, but fool us once ...
Right now, you’ve got a good thing going. You’re the McRib of spices. You get unveiled every now and then and people lose their minds. But then, inevitably, they get sick of you. And, well, that’s because you’re overrated.
I know that’s hard to hear.
Listen, pumpkin spice, you’re corned beef and cabbage, OK? You’re a big, fat, took-all-day-to-make-and-totally-inefficient-for-daily-consumption Thanksgiving turkey. You serve a purpose and we love you for it: But you’re just a time capsule. You remind us that the world is turning and that our lives are spinning tops somewhere inside of it, and you make us nostalgic for so many autumns past.
But if you had what it takes to be a starter in our spice cabinets, you would be by now. It’s that simple.
You failed, pumpkin spice. You’re finished. And I want you to remember which hard-hitting investigative journalist put an end to your flavor treachery.
The name’s Cavaliere. And this is my town.
BY MIKE CAVALIERE | ASSOCIATE EDITOR
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