Children of the Corn

In the exurbs of Washington, you can't swing a cat without hitting a farm festival selling beautiful, robust pumpkins. The cider and the caramel apples and the hayrides....ahhhhh.

Max, Charlotte, Austin and Harry

The Halloween picture is less rosy in England where best I can tell it's the small number of expats and their children, and a few adventuresome Brits, that drive the Halloween festival. 

On Sunday we piled into the car and ventured with our friends the Houdes to a pumpkin patch near RAF Mildenhall. It was the saddest collection of gourds I have ever seen ( our local Giant Food has a better offering). They just don't breed 'em like we American's do, plump and tall and round and oh-so ORANGE.

So we engaged in a little compensation called "pony rides!" And enjoyed, really really enjoyed, a trek through the maize maze, which challenged visitors to complete a quiz (answers were along the pathways, grand prize...100 quid).

Let's face it...who cares about the perfect pumpkin? Me. Not my children. They want to ride in the wheelbarrows, pick up every gourd within eye-shot find just the right combine tractor to climb. Mission accomplished.


It is, as always, a pleasure to be living in a city that is, at it's core, rural. Our walking paths in the city center are engaged daily by cows, who roam and eat and roam and eat and deposit pies for us to navigate. Between the easy-to-obtain farm-fresh veggies and eggs, it always feels like a fall festival.

But just for good measure, I'm sending a love letter to Cox Farms in Centerville, Va. this year.

There's a reason I lament the crummy pumpkin crop here. I'm a carving addict. These are from two years ago.