São Cosme e Damião, and Doce de Abóbora

During slavery in Brazil, Africans were forbidden from practicing their religions. To resist forced Christianity while preserving their traditions, they began associating their deities with Catholic saints. That’s how Saint Cosmas and Damian, protectors of doctors in the Christian faith, came to represent protectors of children in Candomblé and Umbanda.

So on September 27th, children were celebrated with treats. But here’s the twist: Christians eventually took that tradition for themselves. Instead of honoring the Afro-Brazilian spiritual roots, they started handing out candy bags to kids as offerings to the saints for promises they had made. Can you believe it? Not always them, but somehow… always them.

To this day, the tradition lives on. You’ll see kids running through the streets in groups, collecting candy bags from neighbors, or even from people who pull over, pop their trunks, and hand them out. (Not from white vans, though, Brazilian parents love to joke that those will “kidnap you.”)

The bags are usually simple paper sacks printed with the saints’ images, filled with a typical mix: Maria Mole (a marshmallow-like sweet), Quebra-Queixo (a tough coconut candy), Pé de Moleque (peanut brittle), chocolate umbrellas, Doce de Abóbora (pumpkin candy), hard candies, Bananada (Banana candy), Suspiro (meringue cookies), Paçoca (packed ground peanuts), and the infamous Cocô de Rato (“rat poop”. Yes, that’s really what the candy is called, it’s just puffed rice). Sometimes you score higher-quality chocolate, especially if the giver is well-off. And if you’re really lucky, you end up at a Terreiro (a temple where Afro-Brazilian religions are practiced). There, the celebration is serious: you’ll get the candy bag plus popcorn, a slice of cake, and even a soda.

But there’s another layer. In Candomblé and Umbanda, this is the day of the Erês(child spirits). Mediums embody them during rituals, which means you’ll see grown adults acting like playful kids. To a child who doesn’t understand the religion, it can feel a little scary. And sometimes, those Erês demand offerings that aren’t candy at all, think tomatoes or bitter scarlet eggplant. Not exactly what you’re hoping for when you’re sugar-hunting.

And then comes the sibling drama. If you were an only child, the haul was all yours. But if you had younger siblings (especially those not allowed out), you had to hustle for extra bags. “Tia, can you give me another one for my baby sister?” was the go-to line, but it was often met with suspicion if people didn’t know your family. And once home, there was the dreaded “inventory and redistribution” session, where you were forced to share your hard work and the probably 15-mile run. So, mind you, I grew up with nine kids (between siblings and cousins), and only three of us were allowed out. I made it my mission to bring home as much as possible. I wasn’t afraid of the Terreiros, and I definitely wasn’t scared of the “white van”, baby. I was a menace. We ate candy until our bellies hurt.

But there was always one candy that divided us: Doce de Abóbora. To kids, it was straight-up “old people’s candy.” I mean, squash paste with sugar and a whisper of clove? Come on. But early on, my grandpa let me in on a secret: if I learned to like it, I’d have more candy than my siblings, since none of them wanted it. And he was right. Sitting with him, eating his favorite sweet, I started to enjoy it, not just because it meant more for me, but because it turned into our thing. Honestly, those moments with him made Doce de Abóbora taste a lot less like squash and a lot more like memory. And that, ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, is why I was so excited to create a fragrance that screams American fall, but with that unmistakable Brazilian borogodó.

In memory of my grandpa Orlando, and of a childhood I hope my kids will one day know, Doce de Abóbora was born.