The Elusive Kabocha

In a dimly lit room that always smelled vaguely of stewed tomatoes, I confessed in hushed tones to match, that dinner the night before had been a handful of stale chips with salsa. True, this wasn’t every night’s fare but I hadn’t yet mastered work with all of the other chores necessary to sustain an actual living human being. My acupuncturist without skipping a beat and with only a subtle raise to her eyebrow proceeded to offer simple and nutritionally superior alternatives. Pre-baked sweet potatoes left in their too big jackets were definitely out with mental images of shriveled paper bag brown bodies oozing sticky goo onto a plate. But eventually, lulled by the lush reverberating washes of Enya and utterly slack from the effects of well placed needles, I submitted to the notion of nourishment wedded to ease and decided to try out a macrobiotic delivery service to see what would happen.

In closer truth, my resistance to real food and sensible self care was a backlash to the corset of puritanical do not’s punishingly worn when I so doggedly pursued health as if it were something so far outside of me. For a time in gleeful defiance I romped through wine and soft ripened cheese, devoured more dim sum dumplings than was decent, and chased down big fat cookies with more. Soon it became clear that a more balanced approach to food might actually cultivate the health I was trying to regain. So with cautious curiosity I opened my bento style box waiting for life to change. Most of the suspects were typical characters in my former world: the reliable foundation of brown rice, barely marinated tofu triangles, steamed oh so drab and practical collards with a few whiffs of pickle. But off a little to the side, away from the pack, lured a wild streak of color that promised something fresh and a little unusual. Taken by a coterie of playful jack-o-lantern smiles I soon discovered that Kabocha has an intensity and superiority that its relatives lack. A forkful through saturated territory the color of the southwest setting sun, delivers a mouthful of sweet density reminiscent of eating New York style cheesecake straight from the refrigerator. The mouth feel too, reminds me of perfectly cooked if not a little bit under, hard boiled egg yolks. There is a substantial richness within that makes this flesh lean a little on the meaty side rather than that which dabbles with fruit.

But what makes me give this squash the final seal of approval is not that it tastes like the perfect amalgamation of pumpkin, sweet potato, chestnut, apple, and honey, making it stem over blossom-end better than various other orange flesh varieties I have sampled. But I adore the fact that once cooked; even the skin can be effortlessly eaten.

In a big salute to practicality, these compact low center of gravity winter squash store and stack quite well. Impervious to the outside world with their tough exterior, these Zen like emerald green boulders mind their own. In fact our superior beast continues to improve and ripen even a month off the vine in quiet contemplation. There is no extravagant loopy neck or outlandish asymmetry to distract hands and eyes once cutting commences. A focused intent filled split with a knife just off center is relatively all the effort needed to enjoy this cherished son of Japan. Quickly deseeded the halves can hastily be chunked or sliced to be incorporated into a myriad of soups, stews or bakes, or more simply left as is and roasted cut side down. Aesthetically, the glorious blaze of color only intensifies during the cooking process ultimately providing well needed balm to somber feelings associated with cooler temperatures. The transformation process is complete when outer skin and inner flesh meld into one another relaxed and nearly indistinguishable, rendering that which is usually wasted into something satisfying and edible.

Be forewarned that Kabocha is a bit of a koan initially appearing quite aloof when in reality it embodies mellow seasoned passion. Coincidentally on the east side I have spent the last 4 years earnestly chasing look a likes that disappointingly turn out to be Buttercups. Handsomely dignified Cucurbita maxima are nutritious and certainly economical in terms translated to time, dollars, and yield. But ultimately food that will feed and heal needs to thrill the soul and capture poetry in some small way too. This pumpkin from afar wrapped in a shawl of modesty has been the food to open my eyes beyond good and bad, restriction and permissiveness- and the one to finally close the chapter on stale chips and salsa. That is for dinner anyways.


Roasted Kabocha with Miso Butter and Scallions: adapted from Epicurious. After finally locating a kabocha, I am now waiting for it to ripen. Meanwhile I enjoyed this butter with Japanese sweet potatoes and decided it would work well with my favorite squash.

Ingredients:
2-3 lb Kabocha cut approximately in half
3 Tbsp. softened butter more or less
1 Tbsp. brown rice miso, to taste
2 Tbsp. finely chopped green scallions

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees and place Kabocha cut side down on a slightly greased baking sheet. I usually do not even remove the seeds and strings until afterwards when less scraping is involved. Plus, somehow I think it keeps the interior moister. Prepare the miso butter by mashing the softened butter with the miso and folding in the scallions. The ratio of ingredients is dependent upon your taste buds, tinker accordingly and remember if there is extra it can be used for other cooked vegetables. Bake the squash for about 45 min. but begin checking after half an hour for doneness, when the flesh will pierce easily with a knife. Once done, cool enough to safely handle, remove seeds if necessary and half each half again. Place a small pat of the seasoned butter into each of the cavity to melt and then serve.

What It Is Not

“There’s a little black spot on the sun today.” Sting

When I moved here some four years ago, I couldn’t see much when I looked out across the stubble straw stretch of brown. That one secret buried deep in my tightly held chest confirmed that I was too rooted to another place and another view to look fairly at any other. For that spread of time, the handsomely bordered deep sprawl of a window framed a scene that while without fail elicited “oohs” and “ahhs” from others, in cruel ruse turned flat and imperfect for my searching eyes.

I’d fix my gaze at nature’s playground with one hard eye scanning a mountain profile which didn’t crest quite as dramatically as certain others that I knew. I silently smirked at stick like trees that would pale and tremble at the thought of West coast giants, but this non stop comparison between here and there didn’t prevent the other eye from darting about in hope to find one small thing to seize upon. Still is the hard driving need within to forge a connection to the immediate environment, but that realization would have to wait until later.

Meanwhile deer and bears boldly ambled by separately but sometimes in pairs and startling Maxfield Parrish hues splashed the atmosphere with voluminous light and drama while I was too busy counting what was not. Things like cilantro, awful limp herbs at the local grocery store- never mind the grand eagle that soared by. And shocked I was to discover that people actually buy lemons and rosemary; even as poplar, birch, and fir seedlings seemed to exponentially populate the view. It is funny to say but I look out at the array of greenery, a rapidly filling in, once clear cut space- and try to find order within it by editing out unruly portions within my mind’s eye, cutting and pasting at whim. Perhaps if these few clumps were trimmed back and this area was taken out, the whole scene might look a little nicer. While I think that I have a good eye, one that catches shapes, proportions, and discerns proper hierarchy. At times more recently I wonder if my eyes see rightly at all, too often viewing the missing element or the one that irritatingly and erringly gets in the way.

Is it any wonder then when a friend rustles through that unruly back drop of wild and later plunks down a container brimming with slim waisted brambles- that I’m caught unaware? Twinkling blackish reddish blue, they are obvious accessory to some creeping low lying hitherto invisible bush. The captivating dark eyed beauties in my palm no longer escape attention and finally bring well needed adjustment to my limited view. With natural instinct, V_ followed the captivating arch from behind her truck to the woodpile out in back. While I was looking at poorly positioned trees; she was foraging nature’s bounty.

Almost four years later and deserving of some kind of certificate I should think, I settle down to a deep bowl of yogurt splattered with honey and royally crowned with backyard blackberries. Impossibly in the past, I avoided blackberries and their ilk because of their seeds. But now I dig in with a sigh, as I impatiently wait for same time next year and marvel silently at all that finally is.