To listen to this post, please click here:Quizzical Squash
Home from our trip to find on the leafy vine in our nearly past-tense garden a half-my-dog-big cloudy blue Hubbard squash. Quizzical. Knobby blue globe, swollen with summer sun and rain. A thing that almost doesn’t seem like food. Food rarely asks an ax in preparation.
You can see how someone thought up bowling. Such a wondrous thunderous squash could rumble Rip Van Winkle skies, knock the ninepins down. Quizzical, though. How and when can this become a dish without a lumberjack to whack it? And a baseball team to eat it?
You can’t accurately at the moment call it squash, since it won’t. Squash, that is. Not yet, anyway. Not till the mallet and cleaver reveal two seedy buckets to be scooped, till the turkey pan and the long lazy roasting turn it from its fierce formica form to a soft sweet heap. Squash is the very endest product of itself.
Yield of my garden, I yield to the impulse to look you up, be certain of your Hubbard-ity. Yes, the images are all this smokey slatey shade. Many are wartier, oddly ovoid or elbowed. In fact, I now appreciate my shapely one, you fat blue toy top of a squash.
But I’m not in the mood to eat squash today, and my upper body’s too fatigued to tackle it. One writer says to bag your Hubbard and to drop it on the floor. But it gave me all these words today! I have affection for it and that seems disrespectful.
I turn to Alice Waters on my shelf. She always has an answer and today she says, “A winter squash is better left to sit a few weeks after harvest.” I’ll wait for the orange of October to open this blue. Whew!
What’s cooking with you?