Bountiful Butternut

A birthday present . . .

Last week I had a landmark birthday. That day was also the beginning of my second week without a full time job in almost two years. I loved going in to work every day and talking to people, in person, lots of strangers, five days a week. Especially “after” COVID. But it suddenly came to an end and I’m adrift. Also sad. And yet happy! My answer to the question of “How are you?” really depends on when you talk to me and who you are.

But this I know: Cooking both grounds me and inspires me, and always has, ever since I made my first pineapple upside down cake for the Girl Scout cooking badge. So I am writing about cooking here in this space, and I would love for you hang around here with me. The title and M. F. K Fisher quote are copied from my old blog, Dream Kitchen, which I wrote from 2004 to 2012. No matter what else has changed in the world and my life since that time, I still love the title and the quote.

To get back to last week, I needed something beautiful to do on my birthday. I felt like being a homebody and cooking something seasonal. So I eyed a five-pound butternut squash on my counter, and said to it firmly, “It’s your turn.” (I’m used to talking to people all day.) I chose Thomas Keller's Butternut Squash Soup. It felt divine to cook in my kitchen all morning in my sweatpants. I added the brown butter the next day just before serving. I had decided to commit to the recipe instead of riffing on it, so I did use creme fraiche instead of yogurt, my usual cheat. This is a “company” soup: luxurious, rich, velvety.

If you’re doing the math you’ll see that I still had a pound and half of squash left over. I warmed up the cooked roasted squash and had it for breakfast with a fried egg and sriracha on top. As for the leftover cubed squash, I roasted it while prebaking a piecrust, and put in in a quiche with chard, cheddar, and the rest of the creme fraiche. Consider it devoured.

For reasons that are boring and technical and that I don’t actually understand, I can’t download my photo of the quiche, so here instead is a photo of my grandmother’s Cornishware canisters. My grandmother, who was alive in three centuries, was a proud Daughter of the American Revolution and etiquette tyrant. She loved me with a special grandmother fierceness, that “I’ve-been-through-some-shit-in-my-life-and -you-know-nothing” kind of fierceness. Without actually saying “shit” of course. My gracious, no.

See you again here in a few days.