The majority of summertime produce has my utmost respect. Even in the dead of winter, if I close my eyes, I can still visualize some of their more seductive characteristics: the velvety weight of a peach, the velvety weight of a tomato, the way a perfectly ripe blackberry pops between teeth, leaving a sweet, inky stain on the tongue. I had never before dreamed of yellow squash.
I’m not sure when I decided that yellow summer squash, with its delicate skin and watery flesh, was boring, but that thought persisted in my mind for a long time. I would at least occasionally purchase some in June or July out of obligation to prepare food for the season, only to let them sit in my crisper drawer until their exterior was no longer taut and I had to hastily prepare food with them. As you might expect, the outcomes were never very promising. There were way too many sautéed slices that fell flat when they hit the plate and way too many ratatouille jokes that ended with “I’ll just wing it!”
Those who are passionate about summer produce often insist, almost fanatically, that it doesn’t take much to elevate their favorites to a transcendent state. I frequently join their annual chant: Give me some white bread with some Duke’s spread between slices of lightly salted tomato. Give me a nectarine that begs to be eaten haphazardly over a kitchen sink.
I believe that I harbored some resentment toward yellow summer squash because, in contrast to its seasonal contemporaries, it seemed to take too long to transform it into just… something.
But this summer marked a sea change, as nothing felt simple during this season.
I’m not sure if it was the protracted pandemic, the devastating loss of bodily autonomy, or “ire about unfettered capitalism,” as Salon Food contributor Maggie Hennessy once put it. However, I became aware that I wasn’t quite myself around mid-June.
A heavy cloud of humidity lingered in my apartment for several weeks. No matter how many fans I placed carefully or how frequently I fiddled with the windows, the hot air remained stationary. It served as a constant reminder of the stagnation I experienced all around me.
Friends, acquaintances, and Instagram users I follow didn’t seem to be affected by it. They were occupied with sipping lovely little cocktails, lounging by the water, or sharing Italian photo dumps online. (I swear, right now, half of America is in Italy.)
I texted a friend, “Summer ought to be simple.”
You’re exhausted, she said. And you won’t stop being exhausted because you have no idea how to enjoy a weekend.
Of course, she was correct.
I was exhausted. I’m worn out. I grew up in an era where hustle was valued and side jobs were commonplace, so I’m great at telling the people I care about to take time off, but I frequently find it difficult to view my own rest as a luxury. Although I wouldn’t say I fantasize about labor, I also have no idea how to avoid it.
My friend and I both have this issue, so we argued briefly before ending the conversation with our customary nightly sign-off, “Make yourself a good dinner.” I joked with her and said, “I’m between grocery runs, but I’ll try.” I started gathering the ingredients for a quick meal: the majority of a sleeve of bucatini, a single strip of bacon, a half-onion, and some parmesan cheese. I pushed prep bags of cabbage and kale aside and reached into the crisper drawer, where I found my yearly summer squash purchase: two yellow straight-necks, still in their original packaging from the store.
As I looked over the assortment of ingredients, I recalled two pasta dishes that I had previously enjoyed making: the caramelized zucchini pasta from Ali Slagle and the caramelized shallot pasta from Alison Roman.
“Why not yellow squash, especially if there are some onions in the pan to aid it along the way if zucchini can caramelize?”
I added a pat of butter and a few drops of olive oil to a skillet. I shredded the squash and roughly chopped the onions as it melted. I let the mixture simmer for about 10 minutes over low heat, stirring it with the back of a wooden spoon. It only took the squash 20 minutes to change. Its flexible white and yellow flakes had intensified to a honey color, and what vegetal sweetness they still had had a noticeable increase.
I was consuming the caramelized squash with a spoon after only 40 minutes.
I boiled the pasta and then added it to the skillet after taking the squash off the heat (after draining it). The squash coated the bucatini like a velvety sauce thanks to a combination of pasta water and whole-milk yogurt. I garnished it with some parmesan, chives, and crisp bacon. Let me tell you something: that pasta dish was just as transcendent as a tomato sandwich from the height of the tomato season or a sink nectarine.
The irony that the squash only required a little care to get there is not lost on me. It required some patience and time. Ultimately, it needed to rest with only the occasional stirring, largely undisturbed.
Maybe I just need to treat myself like a good summer squash, I wrote in the caption of a picture of the dish that I sent to my friend. It’s a start, even if it isn’t the answer.
