Saturday, July 26, 2008
This morning at the Grand Lake farmers' market, I bought squash blossoms, one of those foods that falls under category of things I'm dying to cook with but don't know how to prepare (see also: fern, fiddlehead). We'll call them Theoretically Fun Foods.
First of all, say it to yourself a few times over: SQUASH BLOSSOM. SQUAAAASH BLOSSOM. SQUASH. BLOSSOM. It sounds like an insult, or something George W. Bush would call some poor (wrinkly, orange, delicate) intern. It's like a whole little saga of tragedy and redemption, right in the name. You know how Hemingway wrote his six-word story ("For sale: baby shoes, never worn")? Squash blossoms are like that, only vegetable.
And just look at them! They look so exotic and also vaguely geriatric--wrinkled, obviously fragile, and yet surprisingly sturdy at the base. People stuff and deep-fry them, which sounds sacrilegious for something so fine and so summery; I plan to chop them up and toss them into a frittata, and to try one raw just to get the gist. They smell good, which shouldn't surprise me (flower, duh) but does anyway (looks like wet, orange laundry).
Wish me luck. Will report back.