The goop.

I honestly remember very little about my childhood. That said, one thing I do fondly recall is my sister and I sitting on our driveway, pumpkins in laps, waiting for Dad and the carving knife. I don't remember being squeamish about the goop. I probably was - I was a pretty good complainer -  I just don't remember it. Given that this was a Dad Activity, I'm guessing Mom was definitely squeamish.
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Yesterday I tried to replicate and reinstate this family memory.
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We started small. (Mostly because lugging home two large carving pumpkins from the grocery store that's 1/2 mile away is something that needs to be planned ahead for.) We started simply.
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That didn't quite hit the major memory maker button. So we persevered, schlepped to Sainsbury's, lugged back some whoppers, and got out the knife.
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And then the goop. Oh... The Goop! My boys would not touch it with a 10 foot pole. Despite being obsessed with slime (AKA: dodos), the goop was too much for them to contemplate. 
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We needed tools.
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Obviously you've dealt with pumpkin goop and obviously you know there are no kitchen tools designed to deal with it. So, frustrated that my family memory was not playing out as it should, I dove in and gave Raphael and Wendolyn the cleaning of their lives.
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And then I set them on fire.
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p.s. Happy Birthday, Mom!