out of my gourd for sophie’s squash + a recipe for butternut bisque

All autumn long, I’ve been harboring a big love for Sophie’s Squash (Schwartz & Wade Books, 2013), Pat Zietlow Miller’s heartwarming debut picture book illustrated to perfection by Anne Wilsdorf.

I had my eye on it well before its official release date back in August, marveling like everyone else when it proceeded to rack up *starred review* after *starred review* (Booklist, PW, SLJ, Kirkus), my excitement steadily building until I finally held a copy in my hands and devoured every word. Oh my, oh yes! No wonder! Every accolade this book has received is so well deserved.

One bright fall day, Sophie chose a squash at the farmers’ market.

Her parents planned to serve it for supper, but Sophie had other ideas.

These ideas included naming her squash Bernice, holding her, bouncing her on her knee, tucking her into bed and taking her everywhere. Ever the steadfast friend, Sophie refuses her mother’s gentle prodding to cook Bernice and rejects her father’s attempts to pacify her with a new toy to take Bernice’s place.

But as time goes on, Bernice develops splotchy “freckles,” so Sophie decides to act on a farmer’s advice to keep Bernice healthy. She tucks her into “a bed of soft soil”, then waits out a wistful winter, hoping Bernice is okay. Come Spring, with all the snow melted, Bernice magically re-emerges, soon gifting Sophie with two wonderful surprises, as only the best of friends can do.

Art © 2013 Anne Wilsdorf

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friday feast: the proof is in the panna cotta

 

Thanks to Diane Shipley DeCillis, we now know why the course of true love never did run smooth.

Curtain up!

* * *

via Da Silvano

OPERA BUFFA

At La Dolce Vita, in the village,
the gnocchi lifts itself off the fork,
floats like a cloud in your mouth,
the marinara so fresh,
it ripens the tomatoes, garlic
and basil right on your tongue.

Clemenza’s in the kitchen
stirring the sauce,
telling everyone he really doesn’t eat
that much, it’s the fumes
that have permeated his body,
gotten under his skin
and made him fat.

My date Antonio closes his eyes
after each bite, groans,
Marona, this is as good
as my mother’s.

Satisfied, he lays his folded napkin
on the empty plate and slumps
in the chair while I,
having saved room,
crane my neck looking for the waiter.
What, you want dessert too?
He seems surprised.

I’d like to see what they have,
though I’ve committed it
to memory.
Aren’t you full? he asks.
Am I full? I think to myself.
It’s bad enough that we have to die,
that I’m not taller, that my metabolism
is molto lento, but to dine with someone
who is indifferent

to a chilled plate
of Panna Cotta,
silky, quivering cream
adorned with fresh berries,
or Torta Strega, cake
perfumed with liqueur,
filled with pastry cream
and finished
with hazelnut meringue.

I cannot live on lasagna alone
and the fact that Antonio
doesn’t sense this threatens
our chance for a future.

The waiter smiles as he unravels
the dessert menu, handwritten
on rough brown craft paper.
Tiramisu
Umbrian Apple Tart
Selville Orange Sorbetto …
This is so beautiful
, I say,
ordering the Panna Cotta.
May I keep the menu?
Of course Signora
, he says.
And you sir?

No. Nothing for me,
just a cup of espresso
.

Oh Antonio, Antonio what
are you thinking?
How can I trust a man
who doesn’t like sweets?
At La Dolce Vita
what could have been the start
of a beautiful romance—
snapped like a broken string
on a Stradivarius!

from Rattle #20, Winter 2003
Tribute to Italian Poets. Posted by permission of the author, copyright © 2013 Diane Shipley DeCillis.

 

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noodling around with grandpa’s cloudy with a chance of meatballs cookbook by judi barrett and ron barrett

Hungry?

Let’s check the weather report to see what’s on today’s menu.

I hope we’re not getting any hamburger storms or pea soup fog. I wouldn’t mind a little drizzle of orange juice, followed by a few low clouds of sunny-side up eggs with lightly browned pieces of toast drifting in from the east. If you see any cream cheese and jelly sandwiches out your way, don’t eat too many or you’ll get a tummy ache.

I twirled my spaghetti with glee when I learned that my favorite meatball maven Judi Barrett had published a brand new cookbook containing some of Grandpa’s favorite recipes. Now, you and any nibble-happy munchkins hanging out at your house can create your very own culinary weather!

As you know, the original Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs book starts out with Grandpa flipping pancakes on Saturday morning. So it’s only right that the first recipe in the cookbook should be for these very same pancakes, which taste just as good any day of the week, any time of day. Flipping them onto someone’s head, however, is entirely up to you.

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friday feast: punkin’ pumpkins (say that fast three times)

lucy
Lucy holding Bossy’s Feltworks apples and pumpkins (photo by Mandy Troxel)

Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins. Everywhere pumpkins! Hooray!

Okay Okay. I KNOW I’ve been a tad indecisive lately, asking you to call me Melon Head, then Apple Dumpling, and last week, Apple Pudding.

And not for a second would I presume to be as adorable as little bossy lady Lucy up there who without a doubt personifies the term of endearment, “Pumpkin,” like no one else.

But.

I am now a Pumpkin Girl, having braved the chilly winds and hoodie-cladded throngs of wriggly, hyper-adenoidal munchkins with their parental units who led the charge at Cox Pumpkin Farm this past weekend.

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Oh, so brave! Are you impressed by the sacrifice? All just for you, natch.

Today we celebrate the joy that is pumpkinness with an iconic poem and some pumpkin pie. Are you wearing your orange bib? I notice you have on your Halloween mask again. That’s good too.

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Often shared at Thanksgiving, this is an interesting poem because of Whittier’s reference to pumpkin carving in his boyhood, which suggests the practice predated widespread Irish immigration to the U.S. in the 1840’s (hat tip to American Scrapbook for that tidbit).

As you probably know, the Irish had the most influence on the celebration of Halloween (they used to carve out turnips to light the way on their midnight Autumn ramblings). In America they simply substituted pumpkins since they were so plentiful.

Whittier’s tribute to the pumpkin first appeared in the Boston Chronotype in 1846, and I must say I do like his mention of pumpkin pie!

Dig in:

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friday feast: pommes, poem, pudding

“It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is connected with that of man.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

Apple print available via Sugar Lane Photo Shop

Every Autumn, I fall in love with apples all over again.

I reread my favorite apple poems, visit the farmers market to say hello to my friends Stayman, York, Winesap, Fuji, Rome, and Jonathan, drink lots of warm cider and best of all, look for new apple recipes.

No matter how you eat them — out of hand, in salads or in every conceivable baked treat, it’s all good.

Repeat after me:

Apple Tea Cake
Swedish Apple Pie
Grandma’s Apple Crisp
Rustic Apple Brown Betty
Buttermilk Apple Buckle
Apple Pandowdy
Apple Cider Donuts
Apple Clafoutis

See, you’re smiling. Are you thinking of family chattering at the table, the wonderful smell of cinnamon-y apples wafting from the oven, the safe, happy place of your childhood kitchen? Apples have that effect on people.

Apple print via Marianne Lo Monaco

Today, just because you look all perky and adorable, we’re serving Baked Apple Oatmeal Pudding.

But first:

I love sinking my teeth into Dorianne Laux’s delectable poem because of the way it celebrates how wide ranging our apple associations are. Nature’s wondrous, perfect blushing orb — hold it in your hand, hold worlds within a world for all time. There from the beginning (A is for Apple Pie! an apple for the teacher), what piece of real or imagined history will you taste with that first bite?

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