We never carved pumpkins when I was growing up. Perhaps my mother wanted to avoid juvenile usage of sharp objects. I'm unclear whether she feared accidental dismemberment or active aggression.

Although my husband and I always roasted pumpkin seeds, I began a carving tradition in 1988, expecting my first child in a few months. Placing my lighted jack-o-lantern on the porch, a trick-or-treating neighbor appeared sporting a chain saw and hockey mask. "I don't want a Caesarian," I shrieked. Oddly, I ended up having one a week later, but in a hospital. The doctors wore surgical masks, though.

My favorite part of our annual pumpkin carving is watching my children handle pumpkin guts; an experience reminiscent of observing a preschool craft table, where many participants view sticky, colorful, gritty, or gooey material suspiciously, staring at their fingers while considering whether this stuff will cause permanent damage or just feels disgusting.

This year pumpkin carving encroached on Sunday supper, as carvers must carefully evaluate what the pumpkin wants to be, as well as whether artistic intent matches ability. In the past, many elaborate carving plans have been cheerfully revised to generic mutants after a slip of the knife. As our guests arrived, I shoved aside the innards-soaked Rocky Mountain News to make space for appetizers. I still wasn't done sorting and grading seeds.

The end results, shown above, are minimalist in style. Also, dinner was served an hour late, but no one lost any fingers.