Folk music squash

My mother raised me on white men with guitars. Bob Dylan, Willie (Nelson, is there any other), James Taylor, Cat Stevens, and, of course, Simon and Garfunkel. They were always with me, their crinkly vinyl voices playing in the background of our Oregon living room and later blasting out of the car speakers as we moved from one state to another.

These men are in my marrow. (I even ended up with their big crazy hair.) One chord off their guitars, and lyrics still come unbidden to my lips. It doesn't matter that I am listening to Beyonce as I write this. I will always be going to Scarborough Fair.

Last night, my mom dropped by and asked my husband to attack a large butternut squash for her. The arthritis in her hands makes it tough to apply the kind of pressure needed to slice through a stubborn rind.

Tonight she dropped off her thank you. It's folk music squash, she said, made with the last of the herbs from her garden. She'd picked parsley, sage and rosemary from the fading bushes in her container pots. Then she went digging in the kitchen. No thyme. She took off to the store. With those ingredients she had to have the right cosmic/lyrical balance. She found the fresh thyme and finished the dish.

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The results were delicious. Here is her recipe.