Before Pumpkins There Were Turnips (Turnip Lanterns and the History of Halloween for Kids)

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The first time I carved a turnip lantern, I nearly lost a thumb.

I was about six, staying with my grandmother in England for the half-term holiday at the end of October, and she announced, with the air of someone about to share a great secret, that we were going to make a “proper” Halloween lantern. Not a pumpkin. Pumpkins, she said with a sniff, were “an American invention.” We were going to carve a turnip, the way she had as a girl.

What she didn’t mention was that a raw turnip is roughly as soft as a rock. We spent two hours gouging it out with a teaspoon and a small, alarmingly sharp knife, my hands aching and red, bits of turnip flying across her kitchen. And at the end of it, we had the most wonderfully ugly little lantern, with a lopsided grin and one eye bigger than the other, glowing on her windowsill like something out of an old ghost story.

I’ve never forgotten it. And this year, with three little girls of my own and a garden full of turnips, I decided it was time to pass the tradition on.

So grab a cup of something warm and gather the children. I’ll tell you the story of where Halloween really comes from, why we used to carve turnips long before anyone thought of pumpkins and exactly how to carve your own turnip lantern together. (Thumbs firmly attached.)

The story of Halloween (a version for little ears)

Long, long ago, more than two thousand years ago, the Celtic people lived in the lands we now call Ireland, Scotland, Wales, parts of England and northern France, and even right here in the north of Spain. They were farmers, and their whole lives followed the turning of the seasons.

For the Celts, the year had two halves: the light half and the dark half. At the very end of October, when the harvest was gathered in and the days grew short and cold, they celebrated a festival called Samhain (you say it “SOW-in”). It marked the end of summer and the beginning of winter, the darkest part of the year.

The Celts believed that on the night of Samhain, the invisible wall between our world and the world of spirits grew very thin. Spirits, fairies and the souls of those who had died might wander back into the world of the living. So people lit huge bonfires on the hills, shared feasts and wore disguises, perhaps so that any mischievous spirits wouldn’t recognize them.

Many years later, the Christian church made November 1st “All Saints’ Day,” also known as “All Hallows’ Day.” The night before became “All Hallows’ Eve,” which, over many years of people saying it quickly, became “Halloween.”

Why turnips?

In Ireland and Scotland, people began carving faces into turnips, swedes (which Americans call rutabagas) and other root vegetables at this time of year. They put a glowing ember or a candle inside and set them in windows or carried them as lanterns to light the way through the dark, maybe to scare away wandering spirits, or to guide the friendly ones home.

There’s an old Irish folk tale that goes with them, about a clever, mean old man called Stingy Jack, who tricked the devil one too many times. When Jack died, he was turned away from both heaven and the other place, and was left to wander the dark forever, carrying only a single burning coal inside a hollowed-out turnip to light his way. People called him “Jack of the Lantern,” or “Jack O’Lantern.”

Then, in the 1800s, many Irish and Scottish families crossed the ocean to start new lives in America. They brought their Halloween traditions with them, but they found something there that was much bigger, much softer and much easier to carve than a turnip: the pumpkin. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Halloween where we live

Here’s something I only learned after we moved north. The Celtic roots of Halloween aren’t only Irish and Scottish. This corner of northern Spain has Celtic roots too, and its own old version of the festival, called Samaín, is enjoying a lovely revival. Every year, more families carve faces into turnips and pumpkins and light them in their windows, just like their great-great-grandparents might have done. When I first told the eldest that children here have carved lanterns for hundreds of years, her eyes went very wide.

“Even before tablets?”

“Even before electricity.”

She thought about this for a long time.

How to carve a turnip lantern, step by step

A quick word before we start. Turnips are hard, and carving them requires a sharp knife. All the cutting is a grown-up job. Little ones can draw the face, scoop out the middle with a spoon (once you’ve softened it) and choose where it goes. Big kids can help more with close supervision.

What you’ll need

• A large turnip, swede or rutabaga (the bigger and rounder, the easier)
• A sharp, small knife (for grown-ups)
• A sturdy metal spoon, a melon baller or an apple corer
• A pen or marker
• A battery tea light (safest with children) or a real tea light for grown-ups to light
• Optional: string or wire to make a handle

Step 1: Soften it (the secret my grandmother didn’t know)

This is the trick that saves your thumbs. Pop the whole turnip in the microwave for a couple of minutes, or simmer it whole in a pan of water for about ten minutes, just until the outside layer softens slightly. Let it cool completely. The flesh will now scoop out far more easily. (Grandma, if you’re reading this from somewhere, I’m sorry. We could have saved so much time.)

Step 2: Cut off the top

Slice a lid off the top of the turnip, about a quarter of the way down. Keep it, as it’ll become your lid. Trim a thin slice off the bottom too, so it sits flat without rolling.

Step 3: Scoop out the middle

Using the spoon or melon baller, scoop out the flesh, leaving a wall about half an inch (1 cm) thick. This takes patience. It’s a lovely, slightly gross, deeply satisfying job for little hands once the turnip is softened. Save the scooped-out flesh for soup (turnip and potato soup is delicious).

Step 4: Draw a face

Let the children draw a face on the outside with a pen. Spooky, silly, sad, surprised. Traditional turnip lanterns are wonderfully ugly and a bit creepy, so there are no wrong answers. Our two-year-old drew what she insisted was a cat. It was not a cat. It was perfect.

Step 5: Carve the face (grown-ups)

Carefully cut along the lines with your small knife, pushing the pieces out from the inside. Go slowly. Small, simple shapes work best on a turnip.

Step 6: Add a handle (optional)

Poke two holes on either side near the top and thread through string or wire to make a handle, so it can be carried like a lantern on a walk.

Step 7: Light it up

Place a tea light inside (battery ones are safest), pop the lid on, turn off the lights and watch it glow. Then stand back and enjoy the gasps. There’s something about the soft, flickering light of a turnip lantern, eerier and more ancient-looking than any pumpkin, that feels genuinely magical.

Turnip lanterns shrivel a little over a few days, their faces sinking and wrinkling, which only makes them spookier. When they’re done, they go on the compost heap.

Ways to bring it into learning at home

Our children go to school, but I love weaving seasonal traditions like this into our learning at home. Here are some easy ways to turn turnip carving into a little lesson, without it ever feeling like one.

• History: Tell the story of Samhain and Stingy Jack around the glowing lantern. Look at a map together and find Ireland, Scotland and America, and trace the journey the families took across the ocean.
• Science: Talk about why we grow root vegetables, how they store energy underground and why they last through the winter. Watch your lantern shrivel over the week and ask why.
• Gardening: Plant some turnip seeds (they grow fast in fall) and watch them sprout. There are more ideas in what to plant in fall.
• Math: Compare a turnip and a pumpkin. Which is heavier? Which is taller? How many seeds can you count in a pumpkin?
• Art and writing: Draw your lantern, write a spooky story about Stingy Jack, or make a “lantern faces” chart.
• Cooking: Make soup with the scooped-out turnip.

And if you’re gathering fall treasures at the same time, a lantern looks wonderful next to a fall nature table.

Lighting the way

On the evening we finished our lanterns, we lined them up on the porch steps, three wonky, glowing little faces, one for each of the girls. It was drizzling, of course, and the mist was rolling across the fields, and the only light for miles was the soft orange glow of those lanterns and the windows of our kitchen behind us.

The eldest held my hand and said, very quietly, “Mama, I think the spirits will like ours.”

And I thought of my grandmother, and her teaspoon, and her lopsided lantern glowing on a windowsill in England more than twenty-five years ago. And of all the mothers and grandmothers who’ve carved lanterns in dark kitchens, right here in these hills, for hundreds of years. All of us, lighting the way home through the dark half of the year.

Happy Halloween, my friends. Light a lantern for someone you love.

With love (and slightly turnip-scented hands),

Milly x

P.S. Have you ever carved a turnip lantern? Did you do it as a child, or is it new to you? Tell me in the comments, and if you make one this year, I’d love to see it.