Waiting for Pumpkin Spice

I have a sweet tooth no matter the season.

If you’ve been following my posts for a while, you already know about my disastrous history with cake — failed layers that sank like bad relationships, frosting that slid off like it had somewhere better to be. Cake and I have an uneasy truce: I respect its existence, but I don’t trust it in my kitchen.

Pie, though — pie is a different matter altogether.

Pie is forgiving.

It doesn’t demand perfection; it rewards patience. It lets you work the butter into the flour until it feels right, and enables you to taste as you go. A pie can be rustic, uneven, a little rough around the edges, and still come out beautiful.

Fall is the season when pie becomes gospel.

Pumpkin, of course, with its deep, spiced filling that perfumes the entire house while it bakes. Apple, bubbling over with cinnamon and sugar until it spills onto the oven floor and burns just enough to make the kitchen smell like caramel. Pecan, glossy and rich, is a dessert that feels like a holiday no matter the day. Sweet potato pie, which in the right hands can taste like memory itself.

This is what I love about pie — that while it bakes, the entire house becomes a sermon about comfort. The smell isn’t sharp or cloying like the sprays you buy in the store. It’s honest. It seeps into the walls, into your clothes, into the way you breathe. It makes you want to put on plaid and furry slippers, sit down with a mug of something hot, and just be still for a while.

  I know Albuquerque doesn’t get many cold days.

But those few that do come — those rare mornings when the frost laces the windows and the Sandias catch the first light — I savor them. That’s when the heavier blankets come out, when the kitchen becomes a refuge.

That’s when I want green chile stew simmering on the stove, a pot of pinto beans in the background, and cornbread in the oven. That’s when I make my baked macaroni casserole and lace it with green chile, because everything tastes better with chile when the air is cold.

  If fall is a religion, then chile season is its holiest feast.

The roasters show up outside grocery stores, filling the air with the sound of the drums turning and the smell of blistering green chile skins. You can’t drive across town without catching the smoke in your nose, without being reminded that it’s time to stock up. Because the fresh green chile sells fast — faster than the weather can catch up.

Green chile isn’t just for stew. In New Mexico, we put it in everything:

• Green chile cheeseburgers, smoky and hot, are a state treasure.
• Green chile chicken enchiladas, stacked or rolled, with a fried egg on top if you’re doing it right.
• Breakfast burritos, smothered or handheld, are eaten at sunrise with a strong cup of coffee.
• Rellenos, stuffed and fried until the pepper gives just enough heat to make your eyes water.
• And yes, even green chile apple pie — sweet and spicy, proof that our chile has no boundaries.

  Some people wait for Christmas.

I wait for this.

For chile smoke in the air, for pumpkin spice in my coffee, for pies cooling on the counter, for the kitchen to smell like something worth coming home to. I wait for the few days when I can bundle up, when the air sharpens and the Sandias blush pink, when life feels like it slows down enough for me to notice it again.

Because fall, for me, is not just a season. It’s a ritual.

And while the rest of the world counts down to Christmas, I’m here, counting pies, stocking chile, and letting the smell of pumpkin and cinnamon remind me why I love this place, this time, this season.

By Kyle J. Hayes

kylehayesblog.com

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