Welcome to the Pumpkin Spice Apocalypse

It starts innocently enough. The calendar says September or October, the mornings are a little cooler, the leaves have begun thinking about changing colour, and somewhere in a marketing department, a grown adult whispers, “Release the pumpkin.”

Suddenly, pumpkin spice is everywhere. Coffee. Muffins. Cookies. Doughnuts. Pancakes. Cereal. Protein bars. Candles. Hand soap. Air fresheners. Lip balm. Dog treats. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody, somewhere, is currently developing pumpkin spice motor oil. Your Ford could soon smell like a Starbucks while burning $1.90-a-litre gasoline.

And what exactly is pumpkin spice? That’s the first mystery. There is generally no pumpkin involved. It is mostly cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and a few other spices having an identity crisis. Yet every autumn we collectively agree to call it pumpkin and pay an extra two dollars for the privilege.

Pumpkin spice has become less of a flavour and more of a lifestyle. You don’t simply drink a pumpkin spice latte anymore. You announce to the world that you have entered your pumpkin era, presumably while wearing an oversized sweater and taking a photograph of a cinnamon stick beside a book you haven’t opened.

There are pumpkin spice candles that make your house smell like someone baked a pie in a kitchen that doesn’t actually exist. Pumpkin spice shampoo promises to leave your hair smelling like autumn, which raises an important question: Do we really want our heads to smell like dessert? Apparently we do. Somewhere between smelling like strawberries and smelling like a bakery, personal hygiene took a very confusing turn.

Then there are the products nobody asked for. Pumpkin spice toothpaste. Pumpkin spice deodorant. Pumpkin spice toilet paper. Pumpkin spice barbecue sauce. Pumpkin spice jerky. Pumpkin spice beer. Pumpkin spice dog biscuits. At this point, we’re waiting for pumpkin spice Viagra.

“Take two before bedtime.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently your fall needs require your cinnamon stick to stand on guard.”

Perhaps that’s where we finally draw the line. Although knowing humanity, somebody is already working on the packaging.

The real genius of pumpkin spice, however, isn’t the flavour. It’s the feeling. Pumpkin spice sells us autumn in a cup. It sells cosy blankets, fireplaces, colourful leaves, oversized sweaters, crisp mornings and the comforting illusion that life has slowed down long enough for us to enjoy it.

That’s why so many people love it, and that’s why making fun of it is so easy. We are all willing participants in the annual ritual. We laugh at the person ordering a $7 pumpkin concoction while standing in line behind them, quietly wondering whether the pumpkin spice cheesecake might be worth trying.

And maybe that’s the funny part. We spend much of our lives looking for reasons to hurry. We rush to work, rush home, rush through dinner, rush to the next appointment and complain that the years seem to disappear faster every time we turn around.

Then September arrives and somebody puts cinnamon in our coffee. Suddenly, we’re interested in slowing down.

Maybe pumpkin spice isn’t really about pumpkin at all. Maybe it’s a reminder that we crave little rituals that tell us to stop for a moment and notice the season we’re actually living in.

Of course, you can still keep your pumpkin spice toilet paper. Some things deserve to remain between you and your bathroom.

But perhaps this fall, buy the coffee, smell the leaves, sit beside the fire and enjoy the ridiculousness of it all. Because one day, autumn will arrive without us. And there won’t be a seasonal latte in the world that can bring that moment back.