It is that time of year – home gardens and farmers markets are replete with summer squash. Anyone who has grown zucchini knows the experience of finding da humongous squash hiding under giant leaves that seems to have quadrupled in size overnight. What to do with so much squash?! If you don’t know Marge Piercy’s poem of Attack of the Squash People, she offers all manner of ideas for getting rid of your surplus squash. Some legal, some not.
Rather than stuff them in your neighbors mailboxes, consider this tried and true recipe for Zucchini Puree from the original Moosewood Cookbook (yes, showing my age:) that makes a large amount disappear easily.
Or, get a veggie spiralizer and make zucchini noodles. Easy and fun – you’ll find all manner of recipes on the internet.
Or, google Zucchini Fritters (gluten free, or not, as you like) and make up a huge batch. Freeze what you can’t eat now and warm up in the toaster oven or skillet on a cold winter’s day.
And, enjoy the poem!
Attack of the Squash People
by Marge Piercy
And thus the people every year
in the valley of humid July
did sacrifice themselves
to the long green phallic god
and eat and eat and eat.
They’re coming, they’re on us,
the long striped gourds, the silky
babies, the hairy adolescents,
the lumpy vast adults
like the trunks of green elephants.
Recite fifty zucchini recipes!
Zucchini tempura; creamed soup;
sauté with olive oil and cumin,
tomatoes, onion; frittata;
casserole of lamb; baked
topped with cheese; marinated;
stuffed; stewed; driven
through the heart like a stake.
Get rid of old friends: they too
have gardens and full trunks.
Look for newcomers: befriend
them in the post office, unload
on them and run. Stop tourists
in the street. Take truckloads
to Boston. Give to your Red Cross.
Beg on the highway: please
take my zucchini, I have a crippled
mother at home with heartburn.
Sneak out before dawn to drop
them in other people’s gardens,
in baby buggies at church doors.
Shot, smuggling zucchini into
mailboxes, a federal offense.
With a suave reptilian glitter
you bask among your raspy
fronds sudden and huge as
alligators. You give and give
too much, like summer days
limp with heat, thunderstorms
bursting their bags on our heads,
as we salt and freeze and pickle
for the too little to come.