Christie Cary 

*This article is written in response to a previously published article available here. * 

Pumpkin spice season is upon us—and it is everywhere: lattes, cappuccinos, creamers, coffees, teas, beers, liqueurs, cocktails, pies, cakes, muffins, cookies, pancakes, waffles, oatmeal, candy, ice cream, gelato…you get the picture. With the overabundance of this cinnamon-nutmeg-clove-allspice monstrosity pervading the nasal passages of the general population, I have to respectfully disagree with Brytani: pumpkin spice should be wiped off the planet. However, it seems to be like a proverbial cockroach that refuses to die. 

I can remember when pumpkin spice was the new hotness. I, like most everyone, overdosed on the sweet, spicy goodness. I would walk into my local coffee shop every morning and put in my order for my typical small pumpkin spice latte. The first taste exploded on my tastebuds and I’d close my eyes in sweet relief as the caffeine coursed through my bloodstream, jolting me awake and fueling my morning. I thoroughly enjoyed my morning wake-up ritual. I brought my friends and family into my obsession with this alchemical perfection of spices, turning a solitary indulgence into a full-blown communal lovefest with those closest to me. We would order pumpkin spice pancakes for brunch, buy the jumbo soft cookies with thick pumpkin spice icing and little fall-colored pumpkin confetti sprinkles for girls’ nights, and infuse our homes with scented candles and air fresheners to ensure the delightful scent lingered long after the edible treats had disappeared. However, after a few years of smelling the sugary sweet odors as they would inevitably make their yearly appearance, like tax season, I eventually began to dread it.  

Suddenly, pumpkin spice wasn’t just a drink. It was a movement. It crept into cereals, protein shakes, even dog treats. There was pumpkin spice hummus, pumpkin spice deodorant, pumpkin spice Spam. The flavor that once whispered “cozy fall” was now screaming from every grocery aisle, waving its cinnamon-dusted arms like a maniac demanding attention. Somewhere along the way, pumpkin spice stopped being about warmth and nostalgia and instead started feeling like a brand. Every year, the ads hit earlier, and the flavors grew stronger, as if companies were trying to bottle fall™ itself and sell it to us with whipped cream on top. One day, I bought my usual pumpkin spice latte towards the end of the season, and the smell turned my stomach. The oversaturation had reached a nauseating point, and I could no longer consume my favorite fall taste, nor could I tolerate the smell—the pervasive scent that refused to leave the olfactory center of my brain. My partner still drank them, but I refused to even kiss their lips, where the taste would linger, like disappointment and betrayal. And in that betrayal, my circle of friends and family, whom I had once converted, continued to flirt and engage with the very flavor that had turned on me. While I could not break up with the people in my life, I would excommunicate the flavor that had betrayed me, and so with a heavy heart, I swore off my once-favorite taste, smell, and symbol of fall.  

I suppose I should be grateful to pumpkin spice for teaching me moderation and for reminding me that even the coziest comforts can sour when they’re mass-produced and overexposed. These days, I’ve found new fall rituals — ones that don’t require syrupy self-delusion. Fall doesn’t live in a cup. It lives in the wind, the crunch of leaves, and the first breath of air that feels just a little too cold. Give me hot cider and the smell of leaves decaying gracefully, not cinnamon bludgeoning my senses into submission. Pumpkin spice and I had our time, but like any toxic relationship, it’s better left in the past. May it haunt someone else’s latte.