Lugging a Pumpkin Through a London Airport

Long before the modern pumpkin spice season, many of us longed for a good old-fashioned pumpkin pie and a hot cup of coffee. Alas, in Iceland, we did not have pumpkin in any form for many years. That deep longing for the sweet, mild gourd mixed with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and ground cloves, baked in a flaky crust, only grew as the years passed without it.

Since American Thanksgiving is celebrated, well, in America, Icelanders understandably did not celebrate this holiday. For a few years, we celebrated with families stationed on the military base before it closed. Someone would sign us in as a guest, and we would feast on turkey, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and, of course, pumpkin pie. None of those could be purchased in the Icelandic economy at that time.

When that opportunity ended with the closure of the military base in 2006, we decided to hold a small American Thanksgiving at home each year. I improvised the special dishes and substituted them with food that I could get in Iceland. Our children did not really understand the purpose of this meal and its tradition. They had book knowledge of its history, but no genuine sense of its importance within the American community. Incidentally, not long after the base closed, we started holding our own Thanksgiving celebration in the church. Our children grew up with our international potluck dinner as their Thanksgiving tradition. Instead of turkey, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie, they associate Filipino lumpia and pancit, Ghanaian jollof rice, Polish goulash, Icelandic leg of lamb, and other international dishes with Thanksgiving.

But I digress, back to the pumpkin.

With our fun new international potluck Thanksgiving at church, I had not given much thought to pumpkin pie in a while. With my friends Kathy and Michelle, we decided to visit London for a few days. Visiting mainland Europe from Iceland for a few days costs far less money than visiting the United States. To save money, we backpacked, stayed in youth hostels, and rode public transportation. Taking a few days away from the pressures of ministry was a much-needed respite.

On the last day, as we made our way to London Gatwick airport, we stopped at an outdoor market. The folks there were selling pumpkins. Though they had other produce and trinkets for sale, all my mind could see was a pumpkin. I suddenly had visions of steaming hot pie with a side of black coffee. You can imagine a beam of light from heaven shining down upon it and hearing an angel's song from above. I had to have a pumpkin.

Since we had only backpacks and were headed to the airport, the logistics of hauling this pumpkin needed to be overcome. Undaunted, my faithful friends helped me empty my backpack and load my belongings into theirs, cramming even my dirty unmentionables into every nook and cranny of their bags. I placed that precious pumpkin in my backpack. It was neither light nor shaped to fit nicely into an overhead bin, but I hauled it anyway.

Kathy and Michelle went through the security checkpoint first. They stepped away and turned to watch me try to get my pumpkin through. I set my backpack onto the conveyor belt. Unsurprisingly, it got pulled to the side. The security guards called over some bobbies (police officers) who were nearby. They huddled, whispered, and looked back at me intermittently.

One of them walked over and said, “Ma'am, our sensors are picking up something biological in your bag. It is rather large.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s a pumpkin.”

With eyebrows raised, he said, “A pumpkin?”

I sheepishly replied while also speed-talking, “I am an American, but I live in Iceland. I have not had pumpkin pie in a long time. A really long time. There were some people on the way here who were selling pumpkins. I bought one. It’s almost Thanksgiving. Have you heard of that American holiday? Anyway, I really want to make pumpkin pie for my family. Please, please, let me keep my pumpkin.”

He waited a beat, looked over at his colleagues, and said, “We are going to need to open your bag.”

“Of course!” I exclaimed.

They pulled that beauty out, held it, looked at me, and put it right back into my backpack. “Carry on,” said one of them.

I did. That pumpkin made the world’s best pie.

In case you are wondering, Iceland now sells green beans, yams, cranberries, and, yes, even pumpkins. Every October, grocery stores ship in pumpkins by the tons. The folks buy them to make jack-o-lanterns for Halloween, a holiday that is growing in popularity in Iceland. I buy at least one each year, but I do not use it as a decoration. My pumpkins get baked, processed, frozen, and made into pies, breads, and muffins. Do I feel a little spoiled each year when the local grocery store saves me the best pumpkin in their shipment? Yes. Yes, I do.