Recipe for Seven Dollar Squash

Went shopping for the autumn still life, and I found a magnificent turban squash with a tangerine red bottom and lumpy dark green top. I snapped it up, along with eight severely varigated gourds, one basic acorn squash, two mini-pumpkins, and a six-pack of Indian corn. Got home and looked at the receipt. Damn yam and squishy furthermores! That magnificent turban squash weighed in at 5.15 lbs., and cost $1.49/lb.! Clearly, this was not a squash to be discarded at the end of the painting exercise. This was a squash with expensive tastes and powerful friends.

After trying to give the squash away to everyone at work, I hauled it home along with the other still life veggies. I explained the situation to Steven's lunch gang pals. One of the guys responded in that newly deep sixteen-year-old voice, "No vegetable is worth seven dollars!"

Days passed. I started hiding the gourds like Easter eggs, but without the plastic grass. A roving herd of high school juniors passed through long enough to ponder the Indian corn. They put an ear in the microwave, and lined up to watch the show. It wasn't as good as nuking marshmallow Peeps, but it was entertaining enough for two sequels.

Despite these diversions, the responsibility for the Seven Dollar Squash weighed heavier on me each day. I resolved that Friday I would bake it, feed it to the lunch gang, and be free, free, FREE! Ha-ah-HA-HA!

Upon carving the turban squash in two, I was relieved to find it was orange. Its power over me had grown to the point I expected cosmically-charged fluorescent pickle green. I scooped out its guts, but it still strove to lure me over to the Dark Side. I cut the halves into rough sections, and placed them in a Pyrex pan lined with foil (not a coffin of Transylvanian dirt). I gave each piece a pat of butter and sprinkled it lightly with ground cloves. I looked for the brown sugar in the cupboard, but could only find a lonely honey bear bottle full just to the knees and crystalized. [Parental warning: Open the lid of the bear bottle before nuking it for thirty seconds. Wear oven mitts to remove it from the microwave, then squirt it on the evil squash with vanquishing farting noises. Ignore all comments.] Cover pan with more foil. Place in preheated 350 degree oven and bake for two hours. That is when the high school gang arrives. Since I am my mother's daughter, the squash will not be tender at the appointed hour. It will still be hard as a rock. The teenagers will get off easy without having to consume the magic squash potion. They will not have to contend with Lewis Carroll and the Mad Turban.

I don my pale green pants, and holler, "Oh save me from this turban squash with honey bear inside it!" I bake and bake and bake this Seuss squash. I bake it, then I fridge it. There's nobody around to taste it, and I'm starting to hear voices of Gary Oldman, Vincent Price, and Bart Simpson taunting ... taunting. The hidden gourds are singing the "Oompa Loompa" song hour after hour in California raisin voices.

And then the Durst acquittal hits the news. I've already gutted the squash, cut it up in sections. Can I get away with dumping it in the bay? No. A Seven Dollar Vegetable Must Be Consumed. Clean your plate. There are starving children in China.

Morning dawns after yet another sleepless night. I know what I must do. I scoop the squash sections into a large bowl, and pour in the liquid from a small can of pineapple. I mash it up with the mixer. Put it in a well-greased baking dish. Sprinkle brown sugar (yeah, I know, it was just hiding behind that 1982 bottle of Karo syrup) liberally, and dot with more butter. Cover with foil again and bake at 325 degrees along with a nice rump roast. Make a colorful tossed salad, and some broccoli with cheese sauce for returning college students. The squash is vanquished. Viva le $7 vegetables!

I'm thinking about teaching figure drawing next...