when "pick" really means "choose"

I have never been pumpkin picking. My roommate, her sister, and I made the trek out to a semi-local farm that advertises "pick your own pumpkin" in order to partake in one of their family's traditions: pumpkin carving. As we drove down the field-lined highway, the excitement swelled in me; probably from the small town side of my soul. Thanks to the jedi-light-sabered-air traffic controlling-men, we found a parking spot with hitting any small children or oversized pumpkins that were being carted around the parking lot. We found our way to the giant stack of giant pumpkins...yes both the pumpkins and the stack were giant (sorry no photos)...and then to the pumpkins that were much easier to carry to the car. My companions immediately started walking up and down the aisles, looking for pumpkins with the perfect shape and the right stem. I tried to focus on the hints and tips they were giving me, but the country girl in me wanted to walk out into the field and pick a pumpkin, which the farm had advertised that you could do. It didn't take much convincing to get the ladies to saunter to the field with me; all the while envisioning myself pulling a pumpkin off the vine. Imagine my dismay when, at the field's edge, the pumpkins were already picked. More than at the field's edge, they were picked in the field's center and all the way to where the field faded into dirt. This farm did not mean that you pick, as in take directly from the vine. They meant that you could walk out into the field and pick, as in choose, your pumpkin. So I bought into the methods of my friends. I scrutinized the size and shape and stem. Instead of the from the field, my pumpkin came from the $9 row just beneath the giant tower of giant pumpkins