Breaking Up with Butternut

Dear Butternut,

You were my first, you know—the first squash I ever loved.

I was reluctant to love you; I don’t have a trusting heart when it comes to squash. Too often in the past I had been disappointed by your brethren who proved too stringy or too soggy. I had given up on ever finding a squash to care for, but I took a chance on you—with your graceful neck and pretty orange color—and you never let me regret it.

We’ve had some good times together. Once I relaxed into the relationship and realized I could peel your thin skin, rather than having to hack it off with a knife, things really got fun. We made soup together, and stir-fry; heck, I even ate you raw! That’s true devotion, I tell you, but then again, you meant that much to me.

These days, however, I’ve been reevaluating our relationship. Sometimes I find that you’re just not as flavorful as I hope you to be; sometimes I wish you were smoother. I still think you’ve got a neck to be jealous of, and the ease of your skin does tempt me (I have a hard time not caressing you in the grocery store, if truth be told), but lately I’ve been wondering what else might be out there.



If you really must know, the final break came over a plate of ravioli. I had worked hard for those ravioli, kneading the dough by hand, rolling it out into increasingly thinner and thinner sheets of pasta, it’s no easy task. I wanted a filling that was smooth, velvety even, tasting of nothing but squash. I roasted you, pureed you, and set you to drain out your excess water (you had gotten oddly watery that day, I don’t know why).

In the end you were just okay, strangely grainy actually. I wanted smooth and strong, but you weren’t up to the job. After so much effort, you let me down. I thought about adding some sort of cheese to give you the creamy mouthfeel I desired—and I’m sure I could have done that—but I began to suspect that there was someone else who could satisfy me in style.

Yes, Butternut, I began to desire another.



When I think about it I realize that it’s not your fault—there is someone else I’ve loved for years. We met years ago in Asia and it was love at first taste. But then I moved away and the memory faded. When we met I truly thought we could be happy together, but now I wonder if my heart wasn’t spoken for all along.

It's true, Butternut. I’m in love with Kabocha.

I know this may come as a shock to you—Kabocha has none of your grace or good looks. There’s no easy peeling with Kabocha and, let’s face it, you’ve got the cutest name of any squash on the block. But if you look underneath Kabocha’s hard and sometimes knobby exterior, you’ll see a squash that’s all sweetness and deep velvet. I don't mean to rub it in, Butternut—I don't want to be uncessarily hurtful—but Kabocha makes my ravioli sing.



Dear Butternut, I hope in time you can understand. What we had together was real and true. I really did love you and your smooth supple skin—I may even cop a feel now and again in the produce aisle—but if I am honest with myself I know that my heart lies elsewhere and I have to follow it. Love like this comes along only once a lifetime. Dear Butternut, I hope you find a love like I have found with Kabocha, and I hope you can forgive me.

Your former paramour,

—Tea