My fascination with small things is contagious. By that I mean that it's not partial to people, places, or events. It extends to most other objects, living or non-. And it especially extends towards plants. This is the first year I've grown the Cucurbit family's admirably compact 6-inch pumpkins; each one affectionately called "Small Sugar". I gently trained them onto a tomato trellis, in part to keep the giant foliage aerated and dry. A not-so-sneaky, not-so-effective effort to ward off the infamous powdery mildew. Well, I lost the aesthetic battle (this was neither heartbreaking nor a surprise), but the plant fruited nicely, having grown a proud display of it's own autumn bounty. We severed the vines and set the pumpkins out for All Hallow's Eve, piled as high as they'd allow. And in that spot they patiently waited out the moon. Thanksgiving arrived. It was then I brought them in and washed them up, made a soup and served them. But not before saying aloud, "Thanks, Sugar".