Sinking into the quirky rolling chairs of my grandmothers kitchen I watched her direct  her dishes into a neat line. Powerful aromas resonated through the crisp cold November air, through them, I detected my favorite dish. My grandmother’s mashed acorn squash must be one of the most underappreciated art of our century I thought.

“Alright, you can come serve yourselves,” my grandma said smiling, pointing from one end of the line to the other. I scooped a glob of the orange slop, not allowing it it’s own enclave on the plate, since one of the best parts of the soft buttery paste was when it soaked up other Thanksgiving flavors. I was careful not to completely sacrifice its purity.

Returning to the table I shoveled the mush into my body savoring every bit, I was careful not to get an ill balanced scoop, making sure each spoonful contained just enough crushed walnuts in it. I scraped, scooped and spooned away the orange mass revealing the indigo plate ,like excavating a fossil. Each bite revealed something new about the dish, I first discovered how savory and buttery, in the next scoop I revealed how sweet it was.

The warmth of the dish was yet another miracle, the contrast between the cool air that squeezed my skin and the warm squash that hugged my tongue. Even nature had an innate appreciation for the sensation as her laws made it spew steam that danced like a seductress up into the air.

Unfortunately our affair was cut short, I was out of the ambrosian flesh and was forced to stare at the desolate indigo plate. It mocked me, but with my stomach filled I fell back into the quirky chair.