Don't Squash my Enthusiasm

A butternut squash is a funny thing.

Prior to last weekend's purchase for my Down-with-the-Tyrant melange with chickpeas, I don't suppose I had ever examined a butternut squash up close, preferring to buy each one already peeled and diced by Wegmans' master food prep artistes. However, in my new gluten-free spirit of economy and thrift I bravely entered 'Butternut Squash: one [1] each' on my Smartyphone app and waited expectantly for Sir to return from his scrounging expedition to the shops.

Twenty minutes after leaving the house, he phoned from the produce department, asking me to clarify how much of the vegetable I needed for my recipe. This rather defeated the intended purpose of our cloud-residing electronic list of convenience, but I tried to be helpful. Truthfully, I told my personal shopper that I needed about two pounds. There was incredulous silence on the other end of the line, followed by a wounded sigh.

I waited on tenterhooks to see what might I find in my recycled grocery bag after Sir had completed his rounds.

The answer was a five-pound behemoth that looked like an orange apatosaurus. It was shocking, quite frankly - the Kid Squid made an extremely rude observation before fleeing back up the stairs to his room, cackling delightedly at his own wit.  Sir explained (rather defensively, I thought) that he'd bought the smallest specimen he could find and it wasn't his fault they were all the size of wombats, if wombats had long necks like apatosaurs, which they don't.

I made him a soothing cup of tea and addressed the monster.

Not only did it look like an apatosaurus, it had the skin of an apatosaurus. Even with my sturdiest, sharpest knife I had difficulty making headway. I didn't peel the thing so much as excise its entire outer and inner epidermis. Its flesh was so tough I had to hack at it with some energy in order to cleave its midsection (cutting my left thumb rather dramatically in the process) - but after it was divided into manageable one-pound hunks, slicing and chopping became easier.

When I was finished, I had a mountain of butternut squash cubes eighteen inches high.

I roasted the pieces as per the recipe's destructions (tripling the number of garlic cloves), and half an hour after they went into the oven they emerged soft, caramelized and delicious. Sir and I could not believe how good the aroma was and how complex the flavor of the squash had become.

But I only had enough chickpeas to adorn about one-third of my savory Toubkal, so I was left to ponder what to do with the remaining veg.

I made Butternut Squash and Sage Advice Risotto. I ate some of it all by myself, since Sir was out entertaining The Swedes and the Kid Squid has decided winter squashes are not amongst those ingredients he counts as his favorites. In the course of my studies, therefore, I discovered that the dish has the potential to be served over several meals, keeping in the fridge and microwaving beautifully.

Here follows my method. I filled my largest saucepan with about 20 fl oz of vegetable stock (chicken stock would be good too, I bet, but I used all my chicken carcasses to make rich brown stock in January) and brought it to a simmer. Meanwhile, I chopped up several shallots and sauteed them in butter (using my favorite round-bottomed copper pan, of course) until they were soft. I plucked out some of the roasted garlic cloves from the squash pan and squeezed them onto the shallots. I added 5 ounces of arborio rice and sauteed it for a while, then hit the whole thing was a big splash of dry white vermouth. I let it bubble away contentedly for a bit, then started adding the stock in ladlefuls until the risotto was almost ready, about half an hour later (for those of you who are wondering about this week's stirring companion, I can reveal that I am currently re-reading Anathem by Neal Stephenson). Mindful of The Heimlich Maneuver's stern stipulation that risotto should wave rather than pile, I made sure my rice was nice and soupy.

At the end, I added roasted squash cubes until I judged my mixture to be sufficiently rich, toothsome, and ochreous. I threw in a small handful of chopped dried sage from the garden, added a blob of butter together with a quick squirt of freshly-squeezed Meyer lemon, then clapped the lid on the pan so that the rice could become desirably mantecato.

I checked for the dish for seasoning, then doled it out and hit it with some coarsely-grated parmesan and a drizzle of pompelmo-infused balsamico bianco for brightness. The result was sheer bliss.

I still have one final container of roasted (but otherwise unmodified) squash left in the fridge and believe me - nobody's laughing now.