BRATTLEBORO — The fragrant and delicate basil has long been dead, black and shriveled. I tore the roots up yesterday and threw them in the compost.
The surviving green tomatoes have been transformed into chutney, although the plants remain as grim reminders of frost. A bit of chard still sticks up its leaves, perky, hopeful.
But seriously, summer is over. I mean, it's the beginning of November, for God's sake. What is one to do? Think of spring. Plant bulbs. Plan a winter vacation.
These solutions belie the season. After all those heads of light and ephemeral lettuce, handfuls of juicy, bursting tomatoes, and baskets of swollen peas in their pods, I need the reassuring reality of something more substantial that will help me brace for the coming cold.
This is when I remember the comfort of winter squash.
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Squash: such a strange word. I love to say it out loud. Even stranger is the Narragansett Indian word askutasquash. My ancestors the pilgrims had trouble pronouncing that, so they shortened it to squash.
Askutasquash literally means “a green thing eaten raw,” and I think it referred to what we now call summer squash: thin-skinned zucchini, yellow crookneck, patty pan. These are harvested during the regular summer season and can be “green things eaten raw” or at least with just a bit of cooking.
The skin and seeds of summer squash are eaten along with the flesh. The kind of squash I am talking about is what has been named winter squash: acorn, hubbard, buttercup, butternut, pumpkin.
All varieties are very nutritious and rich in vitamins, such as beta carotene and Vitamin A. These thick-skinned squash are harvested in the fall and then are aged to cure and harden for storage. They require a much-longer cooking time than the summer varieties, and their seeds need to be roasted to be edible.
Squash is one of the trio of three sister vegetables that are the pillars of companion planting. Corn, beans and squash provided the basis of Native American agricultural survival. Corn provides a sturdy stalk on which the beans can climb. The beans provide nitrogen to the soil, and the squash provides a growing “mulch” that discourages weeds and holds in moisture.
In the diet, corn contributes carbohydrates, the beans give protein, and the squash yields nutrition both from the fruit and from the oil of its seeds.
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It is believed that squash, like corn, developed from wild plants that originated in Guatemala or Mexico over 10,000 years ago. Horticulturists have determined that turban squash with its gaudy coloration and protruding blossom end came from Brazil; the large and custardy Valparaiso or Boston Marrow pumpkin is thought to come from Chile; the Hubbard from the West Indies; while the green striped and crook necked cushaw squash was first seriously cultivated in Florida.
Whatever their origin, it is clear that when the pilgrims arrived in America, the Native Americans were experts at cultivating a variety of squash plants, including the pumpkins that we now associate with Thanksgiving.
I find winter squash one of the most beautiful vegetables: knobby with warts or fluted with elongated ridges, smooth and fat or long and dimpled, yellow-red, day-glo orange, green or gray blue, striped, muted or brilliant. All are voluptuous and alluring.
While the classic carved pumpkin is quintessential in its seasonal appeal, I am all for stacking a whole bunch of squash on the steps where the jumbled and mismatched ensemble of shapes and shades appeals to my rebellious aesthetic. In the kitchen, I learned long ago to handle each variety on its own.
Here's a sample of just a few that are in season.
Acorn squash is a readily available variety known for its acorn-like rounded shape. The skin of acorn squash is very hard, and it is best to cleave the squash in two, scoop out the seeds, fill it with something like a few teaspoons of butter; brown sugar or maple syrup; or olive oil and thyme; or even something esoteric like orzo and goat cheese; or bread cubes, apple and curry; or sausage and Gruyère.
The formula is simple. Preheat the oven to 400° F. Halve the squash and remove the seeds. Put whatever you want in the cavity that used to hold the seeds and cook on a baking sheet for 45 minutes to an hour, until the squash is tender and the filling is nice and golden brown.
A great tip for roasting halved, filled squash is to slice a small piece from the bottom to create a nice flat surface, so the squash doesn't roll around in the oven.
Delicata squash, a summer/winter bridge variety, is an oblong winter squash with a striped skin that is edible, meaning it doesn't require a maul to slice.
The delicata is a variety originally introduced in America in the late 1890s, was popular for about 30 years and then disappeared until the resurgence of interest in heirlooms. The squash is unsuited for transportation because of its thin skin, but for the same reason, it takes about half the time to cook as other winter varieties.
Delicata squash makes a superb and quick roasted vegetable. Halve them lengthwise, remove the seeds - no need to peel - then put the squash cut-side down and make half-moon slices about ½ inch think. Toss with some chili paste and lime juice and bake in a 400° F oven for about 20-25 minutes until al dente.
Make a dressing with more lime juice and olive oil, and toss the squash with baby spinach, crumbled feta, and some roasted chopped almonds.
Kabochas, although ancient in origin, have become a fashionable and hip choice frequently featured in food magazines. As revered in Japan as our American pumpkin is here at home, it has a rich and very sweet flavor and is slightly more moist than some other winter squash.
Steaming peeled cubes of kabocha for about 30 minutes seems to accentuate its creamy texture. Drain it, add as much butter as you feel can be absorbed, 4-5 tablespoons of Grade B maple syrup, and some salt and pepper.
If you want to bring out the kabocha's Asian roots - it is a staple in bento lunch boxes - substitute mirin, soy sauce, a tiny bit of fish sauce, and a few tablespoons of honey.
Butternut - my personal favorite - offers honey-colored heavy variety with fewer seeds and a dense, sweet, rich, nutty flesh that I think works especially well in soup. It is one of the best pairings with apples and cider.
Peel, seed, and cut a butternut into cubes and add it to a large pot with a few tablespoons of olive oil, 2-3 peeled, seeded, and chopped apples, and a chopped onion. Sauté until tender.
Add some spice – curry, cardamom, nutmeg, a cup of two of cider and enough stock to make about 4 total cups of liquid. Cook for about 30 minutes until everything is soft and tender. Purée with an immersion blender, taste for seasoning and if you are feeling fat deprived, add ½ cup of heavy cream.
Hubbard squash is very thick skinned and aesthetically one of my favorites: blue/gray with lots of bumps and warts, large and irregularly shaped.
Its skin is so sturdy that a hubbard will keep well for at least six months. One of the best ways to break it open is to put it whole in a paper bag and vigorously throw it on the floor, until the shell breaks into pieces.
Pierce the skin all over with a skewer before roasting in a 350° F preheated oven for about 30 minutes, until tender, and then cut it into 2-inch chunks.
Hubbard works miraculously in this risotto, which will serve 4 to 6 depending on appetites:
Sauté a minced shallot in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Turn the heat to medium and add 1½ cups of Arborio rice and stir until the grains are translucent.
Splash in a cup of dry white wine and stir until evaporated. Gradually add by the ladleful 2 to 2½ cups of hot broth – vegetable or chicken. Stir after each addition until the liquid is absorbed, then add more broth until the rice is cooked, which will take around 15 minutes. You want the rice to have a bit of resistance when bitten, tender but not mushy.
Take the rice off the heat, add a handful of grated parmesan, a few tablespoons of butter, the reserved chunks of hubbard squash, and a bunch of minced sage leaves. Stir gently and serve with extra grated cheese and some toasted pine nuts.
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Let's conclude with the sugar pumpkin: that diminutive and edible version of jack-o'-lanterns, which are much too stringy and coarse to be suitable in the kitchen.
Start with a medium-sized pumpkin that feels dense and heavy. Cut it in half horizontally. Scrape out the seeds and place the halves cut-side down on a baking sheet.
Sprinkle with a few tablespoons of water and roast in a preheated 350° F oven for 1 hour, until the pumpkin collapses and is tender when pierced with a sharp knife.
Remove from the oven and cool. Scrape the flesh from the skin and purée. Voila!
You can turn this into a terrific side dish by mixing in a bit of olive oil and some herbs, or a lot of butter, cream, and some herbs.
Sugar pumpkins are the classic pie pumpkin and if handled properly produce a flavorful and versatile purée. Be aware, however, that pumpkin is about 90 percent water.
So if you're hoping to end up with something that resembles canned pumpkin, which is what you want for pies or the like, you'll need to spread the purée evenly onto a large open baking pan and cook it down in a 350° F oven for 30-40 minutes until it has dried out and is good and thick.
The kitchen police will arrest me for this, but as much as I love all the varieties of winter squash I find in Vermont this time of year, I am also a big fan of canned pumpkin.
It's one of the few prepared products that I really think is just as good, if not superior, to what I make myself - without all the trouble. I love trouble in the kitchen. I love long and complicated recipes that fill the sink with dirty dishes. But I also love good quality, pure, unadulterated pumpkin in a can.
In my younger, purist years I spent many a Thanksgiving serving insipid pumpkin pies that never really held together and bled liquid all over my lovely dessert plates.
Now that I am old and cynical, I make my much improved pumpkin pies from a can and save my remaining culinary virtue and my arthritic hands for the stirring of risotto.