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B. points out the pumpkin isn’t evil enough in black and white. You can’t see the white fur spilling out of it. So here it is in color:

I imagine the aroma is pretty interesting, as well.

I have a very poor sense of smell 🙁

Via Insty, pumpkin pie is an aphrodisiac. Though I think this is the money quote:

Vanilla and strawberry were two other scents that received high responses, but then again, as Hirsch pointed out, “Every odor we tested aroused the participants.”

I believe that this pumpkin may cause nightmares!

Butternut is not, in fact, what they sell in cans back here where God pays attention, but many folks who make from scratch say that the breed of ‘kin they use doesn’t translate well to being canned.

Is much better fresh.

I made three-cheese sauce for my kick-ass Macaroni Cheese, which was much appreciated by the twenty-something guests who chowed down tonight. Just ‘cos I’m a Brit, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a smorgasbord of turkey and ham and veggies and gravy and even a smidgin of pumpkin pie with a dollop of Cool Whip adorning it. Oh, and booze. Let’s not forget the booze.

Pizza is over-rated, and a Whopper would kill me. Look on the bright side – you can probably get a decent bubble and squeak. Can’t find that here, and I have yet to try and make it myself – too many conflicting recipes that bear no resemblance to each other. But we do have a place in our little town that serves bangers that are to die for. Locally made to order. I don’t know how good the rest of their menu may or may not be, because I order their bangers and mash every time I go there.

You only think you haven’t started to talk all retarded yet. People think I’m actually from Maine; the ‘ayuh’ and lost ‘r’s and other retarded New-England-speak snuck in gradually and insidiously. I bet your kinfolk back in Two-Tooth tee-hee when you call them on the phone.

Set the kitchen on fire one time, and nobody wants you to bring a dish or help them cook.
I didn’t burn it down, I only singed it a bit.
Sorta medium rare.
So, I watch football. I am allowed to help clean up.
Suits me just fine.

Glad I’m not alone about pizza, Mike C. Can’t stand the stuff and never did understand what the fuss is about – though it’s become hugely popular over here.

now when you say that you “don’t talk all retarded yet,” are you referring to speaking with an accent or to using phrases like “box with my terrified cat in.”

I ask merely out of curiosity, you understand.

Stoaty, Uncle B must be an amazing fella for you to have left your native soil for merry ol’ England. I don’t think I could’a done it. Kudos to you for taking that leap!

That’s a lucky badger, sez I.

Bit of an in-joke, original signed. I actually went to retarded school. I speak fluent retard.

Cousin Badger, alas for you! Pizza is what American Badgers live for. But we use Pastorelli’s sauce, and several types of Wisconsin cheese, the finest cheese there is. Usually mozzarella, cojack, and cheddar, about 4 oz each on a 12 inch pie. Then add as much ground chuck, pepperoni, ham, sausage, and bacon as will fit onto a thin crust.

I wish I could make a Badger Pizza for you, so you would know just how good it can be. I have had pizzas from places outside of WI, and it just isn’t worth it. When I visited my brother in Massachusetts, I was surprised at just how blah the cheese was. Since you don’t have access to Wisconsin cheese, I am not surprised that you are not really interested in pizza. I wish I knew how to ship you the fixings, so you could make one. Regular applications of pizza are what makes American Badgers the benevolent creatures they are.

I hated pizza growing up. Any kind of Italian food in Dixie suh-diddly-ucked. (It’s probably better now).

Then I went to school in Rhode Island and got a job at a Sicilian pizza restaurant. Dang, those were good pies. I lived on them.

I didn’t like pizza as a kid either, but I sure do now. 🙂

I didn’t even *know* what pizza was until I was a frosh in collitch — and discovered that a sausage-mushroom-pepperoni pizza was the perfect complement to a pitcher of beer.

Geez, I gained a full pound, that year…

I wouldn’t touch tomato sauce of any kind until I was 21 and traveling on the cheap in Italy. Hunger forced me. Now I’m making up for lost time — yum!