Hello. My name is Violeta. I grew up in a pumpkin patch in Connecticut. Growing up, I was the odd one out because I was a purple pumpkin. All of the orange pumpkins were mean to me. At the end of the season I was the last pumpkin to be picked. Everyone went past me. I was lonely. I had no friends.
Then an old lady saw me, picked me, and brought me home. She, with her grandkid, carved me into the most handsome jack-o-lantern I ever did see.
This is a perfect Jack-O-Lantern in my mind.
Then the grandma cut me into slices, and, with her granddaughter, ate me up.
Finally they cut me up, baked me, and scooped out my fruit. Then they put me in this strange cake batter that smelled like cinnamon. I remember seeing a Betty Crocker cookbook. She is the best. They put my new liquidy self in a sheet pan. Then put me in the oven. I waited. They then took my rather flat self and rolled me in a towel. As I cooled down I enjoyed the smell of cinnamon. When I was cooled they unrolled me and spread me in cream cheese frosting, and rolled me back up.
This will be yummy!
”This is a very good pumpkin roll, even if it is oddly colored.”