Pumpkins and squash seem the perfect symbol of autumn and winter cooking. The cook has the job of getting through that tough skin before finding the tender flesh, and they give off their best only after slow cooking. But it’s worth it. They are great culinary chameleons, able to soak up and marry well with ingredients as diverse as gruyere, chipotle, rosemary, sage and nutmeg. Their smoky, sweet flavours are just right for the season of turning leaves.
Confusion reigns, however, about the difference between a pumpkin and a squash. It is a difficult area, and often local usage dictates what is a squash and what is a pumpkin. Both are members of the same family and, although the terms are often used interchangeably, pumpkins are usually the jack-o’-lantern shape we associate with Halloween, with thick, orange skins, while squashes can be smooth, warty, striped, stippled, their skins as green and shiny as old leather books, pale yellow, flame orange or delicate amber. They come in myriad shapes – acorns, turbans, melons and curled, snake-like creatures – and sizes.
Each year, I display them before I cook them: a row is lined up on the kitchen table; a great big rouge vif d’etampes, a French variety that looks like Cinderella’s carriage and acts as a doorstop between kitchen and living room; little miniature ones with cute names such as munchkin, jack-be-little and baby boo sit among the candles on the mantelpiece. Their flesh, once cooked, can be as smooth as that of avocados or baked quince, the flavour as sweet as corn, or, admittedly, simply bland, if you end up with a bad specimen.
The important matter for the cook is to find a variety you like, be it a pumpkin or a squash. The best all-rounder, to my mind, is crown prince. It’s an elegant grey-blue, the sort of colour you might find on a chart of historic paints, with not a hint of the vivid golden flesh inside. The ubiquitous butternut squash always has a sweet flavour and melting flesh, while the chubby, yellow-and-green-striped sweet dumpling and delicata are both excellent for stuffing and baking. Cut off the tops of these little ones and, once you’ve scooped out and discarded the seeds and fibres, fill them with mushrooms, cream and cheese, a part-cooked stuffing of wild and brown rice, dried cranberries and smoked bacon, or chopped cooked spinach and ricotta. Replace the lids and roast them wrapped in foil to stop the sweet juices from running out into the roasting tin and burning.
Even if I’m going to puree the flesh, I either roast wedges or saute chunks in butter first, rather than boiling them. You need to drive off about one-third of their moisture to intensify their taste and, anyway, pumpkin flesh loves butter, olive oil and cream; you will seldom eat a low-calorie pumpkin dish.
The Italians cook pumpkin and squash in risotto, or mash the flesh, sweeten it with crushed amaretti and use it to stuff pasta. The Belgians cook a carbonnade of beef and beer in a hollowed-out pumpkin; in south-west France, they roast wedges with goose fat and thyme. In America, there’s an endless list of pumpkin and squash pies and tarts, both sweet and savoury. I love savoury pumpkin tarts filled with salty cheeses – gorgonzola, gruyere or feta. The oldest pumpkin seeds were found in Mexico, and they make one of the most ancient pumpkin recipes, calabaza en tacha, or candied pumpkin, which is part of the Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations. Cooked in brown sugar, orange juice and cinnamon (it’s delicious with star anise, too), it’s sometimes eaten for breakfast.
Then there is pumpkin soup. Using a base recipe of chopped pumpkin or squash sweated in butter with chopped leeks and simmered in stock, I turn out endless variations every autumn. Add a good splash of bourbon, scatter the top with smoked bacon and serve it under a melting cheese crust or season with pickle juice, paprika and dill (a gorgeous Austrian idea).
I didn’t see a pumpkin until I was about 23, so they are still a novelty to me. I still see the image of the girls in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie books using them as stools to sit on in the attic. American friends, who find pumpkin and squash so mundane, exclaim, “Oh, you and your pumpkins”, but I will always love them. With pumpkins, the only limit is the cook’s imagination.
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This is an edited extracted from Around the Table: 52 Essays on Food & Life, by Diana Henry, published by Mitchell Beazley at £20. To order a copy for £18, visit guardianbookshop.com
