This time of the year, the windows of America are beginning to be dotted with carefully carved jack-o'-lanterns, but in a week or so, the streets will be splotched with pumpkin guts. Orange gourds will fly from car windows, fall from apartment balconies, career like cannon fire from the arms of pranksters craving the odd satisfaction of that dull thud.

There are, to be sure, more productive ways to deploy a Halloween pumpkin. Postholiday, composting is a noble option. A pumpkin grower in Wisconsin once turned a 500-pound Atlantic Giant into a boat.

But what we almost certainly won't do is eat it. First cultivated more than 10,000 years ago in Mexico, cucurbitaceae — pumpkins and squashes — were mainstays of the American Indian diet. If for no other reason than its status as one of America's oldest cultivated crops, an honest pumpkin deserves our reverence.

The current batches that will soon litter the pavement, however, are for the most part irreverent fabrications, cheap replicas inflated for the carving knife. Food in name only, they're a culinary trick without the treat. For those of us who value America's culinary past, smashing a generic pumpkin is more of a moral obligation than an act of vandalism.

During the colonial era, the pumpkin was only one squash among dozens, a vine-ripening vegetable unmarked by a distinctive color, size or shape. American Indians grew it to be boiled, roasted and baked. They routinely prepared pumpkin pancakes, pumpkin porridge, pumpkin stew and even pumpkin jerky.

Europeans readily incorporated the pumpkin into their own diet. Peter Kalm, a Swede visiting colonial America, wrote approvingly about "pumpkins of several kinds, oblong, round, flat or compressed, crook-necked, small, etc." He noted in his journal — on, coincidentally, Oct. 31, 1749 — how Europeans living in America cut them through the middle, take out the seeds, put the halves together again and roast them in an oven, adding that "some butter is put in while they are warm."

Sounds tasty. But one would be ill advised to follow Kalm's recipe with the pumpkins now grown on commercial farms.

The most popular pumpkins today are grown to be porch decor rather than pie filling. They dominate the industry because of their durability, uniform size — about 15 pounds — orange color, wartless texture and oval shape. Chances are good that the variety you're displaying goes by the name of Trick or Treat, Magic Lantern or Jumpin' Jack. Chances are equally good that its flesh is bitter and stringy.

In contrast, pumpkins grown in the 19th and early 20th centuries, the hybridized descendants of those cultivated by the Indians, were soft, rich and buttery. They came in numerous colors, shapes and sizes, and were destined for the roasting pan.

The Tennessee Sweet Potato pumpkin looked more like a pear than a modern pumpkin and, as its name implies, was baked and eaten like the sweet potato. The Winter Luxury Pie pumpkin, first introduced in 1893, became so popular for pies that it posed a fresh challenge to the canned stuff. These pumpkin varieties, and scores of others, were once the most flavorful vegetables in the American diet.

Fortunately, the edible pumpkin is not completely lost. While akin to endangered species, heirloom seeds are only a few mouse clicks and a credit-card number away. By growing heirloom pumpkins, you can have your jack-o'-lantern and eat it, too. More immediately, you can search out heirloom pumpkins at some farmers' markets.

Of course, advocating a shift in any holiday tradition seems like a futile exercise in a nation that, perhaps because we're so young, takes its traditions rather seriously. But it's not as if there's much of a Halloween tradition to violate.

Halloween is relatively new to America. The Irish brought the holiday to the United States in the 1840s, using turnips as jack-o'-lanterns, but Halloween didn't become profitable enough for commercial growers to produce decorative pumpkins until the suburbanized 1950s.

Edible pumpkins were driven near extinction after 1973, when a farmer named Jack Howden started to mass produce a firm, deep-orange, rotund pumpkin endowed with thick vines to create a fat handle to hold while carving. The $5 billion a year industry that developed around Howden's inedible creation is, historically speaking, still in its infancy.

And thus the "tradition" is ripe for improvement. Next year, let's do something not so different: Let's replace a fake pumpkin with a real one.

The face you carve into it might be more distorted, and it might cost a bit more, but there will finally be a credible reason not to smash the thing at the end of the evening. And most important, as Peter Kalm observed back in 1749, we could once again split it open, roast it, add butter and remind ourselves that some traditions, like cultivating vegetables to eat, should never be destroyed.

James E. McWilliams, author of "A Revolution in Eating: How the Quest for Food Shaped America." is a history professor at Texas State University-San Marcos. He wrote this commentary for The New York Times.

James E. McWilliams, author of "A Revolution in Eating: How the Quest for Food Shaped America." is a history professor at Texas State University-San Marcos. He wrote this commentary for The New York Times.