Pumpkin, Properly
Pumpkin is the one thing in this family that causes an actual argument, and the argument is about spice. My mother puts cinnamon in it, my sister puts ginger and a little nutmeg, and my grandmother, who is only present in the notebook, never put anything at all in it but butter, salt and time. She wrote that the pumpkin has its own flavour and that any cook who needs six spices to hide it has not understood what he is cooking.
The truth sits in the middle and nobody wants it, which is why it stays an argument. We tested it again this year with the small dark-skinned pumpkins that come in late and are sweeter than the big pale ones. Half the pan went into a pot and was simmered until it collapsed on its own, with nothing but a little butter and a pinch of salt, and then it was pressed through a sieve. It tasted like pumpkin. Not like a pudding. Like pumpkin.
The other half went into the same recipe with a spoonful of cinnamon and a piece of ginger, and it tasted like a pudding that contained pumpkin. My mother said the first was too plain. My sister said it was right. We ate both, and then my mother had a third bowl with cinnamon in it, brought out only for herself, which is the usual outcome and the reason the argument can go on for another year.
The recipe, then, if you want it: cut the pumpkin in pieces, put them in a pan with a little water, cover, and let it go soft on a low heat. Add butter and salt at the end and mash it, or push it through a sieve if the cook wants a smooth texture. That is all. It takes half an hour of doing nothing, which is the difficult part.