A letter to squash

Dear Butternut Squash,

I trusted you.  You lured me in with your delicious taste and excellent nutritional profile.  I was so excited when the handsome farmer (or hipster douchebag according to Mike) offered you to me for merely one dollar.  I put you in a bag that was safe and warm and carried you with me all the way home.  This is the thanks I get.

I think about how I so gingerly caressed you with my left hand as I sliced away your raw skin and scooped out your seeds.  You were tough, but I held you firmly as I prepared you.  You were so clean.  I turned you into a delicious curry but you did not want me to enjoy eating you.

I looked down at the hand that I held you with but it was not my hand.  It was a diseased looking writing tight piece of flesh.  You didn’t tell me that you didn’t want to be touched.  You didn’t suggest I use gloves and handle with care.  You never warned me that your sap would soak into my skin, making my hand nearly unusable.  As I washed my hands four, five, six times, I finally realized, you were serious. 

I googled you and found out I wasn’t the first girl you’d done this to.  Pyjammy posted, “After cutting up some butternut squash for soup, I noticed that the skin on my left hand became dry and tight. What's going on?”  Even robot made of meat commented “I just up 4 squash for the freezer today and my hand looks like an acid burn victim.”  Ttoommyy knew all about you when she wrote, “ Who knew squash were so evil! LOL.”

It was a full day before my hand began to peel and I was able to feel like a normal person again.  I don’t know that I can forgive you.  What’s that?  I just got a text that said you make delicious soup.  Perhaps I will let you back into my life for this http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Farmhouse-Butternut-Squash-Soup-351412.  “Green apple and a dash of cider vinegar provide just the right amount of tart balance in this slightly sweet, down-home soup topped with homemade bacon bits.”  I’ll be more careful with you this time.  If it doesn’t work out, I’ll just tell people I ran into a door.  With my left hand.

Love,

Shaina