I am powerless to stop winter squash from leaping off the grocery store display into my grocery cart or from the farmer's market table into my shopping bag. I am weakest in the presence of acorn squash.
I must take the squash home, close the blinds, and lock the door. I cut the cute cucurbits up, place them in a casserole, and cook them briefly in the microwave with the lid on. Then I am driven to remove the lid and pop the casserole into the oven until the smell drives me to retrieve the delectable flesh with shaking hands. I try to remember to use oven mitts.
Completely overcome, I surrender and put butter and salt on the squash's delicious goodness and consume it. At night, I distribute the squash rind evidence among the three dumpsters at my apartment complex.
I am confident that my previously unknown metabolic condition, which produces uncontrollable cravings for tender orange flesh, will be discovered soon. I will not have to hide any longer and I can become the spokesperson for the WSA (Winter Squashaholics Anonymous). Between winter squash seasons I will travel extensively and urge others to seek treatment for the condition.
A recent post on Sarah Lenz's Prose and Potatoes blog forced me to recognize my previously unknown metabolic condition.