We were standing at the dining room table earlier this week, Sidney and I, pulling the stringy orange entrails out of a pumpkin purchased from a farmer's market in Berkeley when she said to me with a particularly juicy clump of innards in her grip, "You know what's weird?"
"Tell me," I responded as I continued to scrape at the interior walls of the mandarin-hued globe with a plastic spoon.
"It's weird how in school they teach you who the first president was, but not, like, who carved the first pumpkin."
"That is weird," I said. "But maybe the reason they don't teach you that in school is because nobody knows the answer."
She turned her attention back to the slick heap of guts in front of her and absentmindedly plucked out a few seeds before pausing to address me again. "There are a lot of mysteries like that these days, huh?"
"There are," I told her.
"Geez," she said shaking her head, disappointed. "It's like, just figure it out already, USA."