Due to the recent downsizing of the Portlandivore household down to two single ladies, one of them feline, I am now ensconced in my bachelorette pad in NW Portland. I had help from plenty of amazing friends, whose support means more to me than I’m perhaps capable of expressing, but even still I felt like all of my possessions went on a mating frenzy and gave birth to twenty-five offspring each. One can only survive on granola and yogurt dinners for so long before deciding that perhaps maybe it’s time to just figure out how to fit 1,728 kitchen gadgets into the space designed for, say, only 134 kitchen gadgets, and just do it so one can cook a proper and delicious meal already. Which brings me to squash! Tis the season....
I can probably come up with food-related puns until all of the cows come home (and after a long, happy free-range existence, are made into delightful rib-eye steaks or Boeuf Bourguignon), but the variety and abundance of squash at the farmer’s market also got me thinking about other uses of the word squash.
I think it’s one of those ugly parts of human nature to try to change, destroy, or squash if you will, those things which seem foreign to you. It probably isn’t even a conscious or intentional wish, at least when it comes to not understanding or liking certain personality traits in people you know, but it’s still insidious. I think the ex-Mr. Portlandivore didn’t understand me and so he tried to squash that which he didn’t understand. But one can only be told for so long that their feelings are unimportant or just flat out wrong, before the recipient of such helpful advice either rebels, or in my case, is overwhelmed by sadness and frozen into inaction. So while I’m still patching back up my sad little heart, there’s the best part of me that realizes it’s okay that he left, and that the person I really want to be is no longer going to allow herself squashed by anyone.
So now that I’ve perhaps been a little overly dramatic, or made you all sad and weepy and shit, let’s cook some squash! Yay!