Vile Gourd
Squash.
That unholy yellow paste will be the death of me one of these days. I just know it.
I’ve never liked it. Which is a problem, because 99.999999 per cent of my family does.
For those of you not in ‘the know’ (and in this case you’re fortunate to avoid ‘the know’) the squash is an edible gourd whose soft, inner flesh may be cooked and eaten. Dark green on the outside, yellow on the inside, squash is a staple food at family dinners nationwide.
It’s also one of the most disgusting foods I’ve had the misfortune of coming across in my lifetime.
I have difficulty characterizing its taste. It’s distilled badness.
I spent many suppers at my grandmother’s house inventing squash disposal techniques, as she loved those putrid gourds. The earliest (and most effective) technique was simply to horde the squash up in my mouth and then trot off to the bathroom, where I would spit the squash in the toilet. Flush, rinse, and repeat until plate is clean.
This method of disposal worked well, especially when I was four or five. I was small enough that I could slip away without being noticed by the adults. As I got bigger and bigger, however, running off to the bathroom lost its usability. I was questioned often as to my intent. And, since my mouth was invariably stuffed with squash at the time, I had trouble vocalizing a response (especially without accidentally swallowing any squash, a most terrible prospect).
By the time I was nine I realized that this method would avail me no longer. So, one evening, I decided that I would (craftily) hide my squash among the other remnants of my other food, until such a time that I could dispose of it like a good grandson.
Things started out well. My parents spoke of politics and jobs with my grandmother, things that hold no interest for children. I listened dutifully, nodding whenever my parents nodded, slowly pushing my squash into the various nooks of my plate and food.
Halfway through the dinner, however, my grandmother found me out. She noticed that I was sliding squash into one of my buns.
My grandmother was a kindly woman. She did everything asked of her by her grandkids, in that way grandparents often do. At the same time, though, she was a sly woman, and always ready for a bit of fun.
“Oh, Georgie,” she said, a matronly smile painting her lips, “how’s the squash?”
I stopped. I nearly dropped my fork, which was halfway through the air, a mound of squash perched on its prongs. I watched as a tiny lump of the stuff broke from the larger bulk and plummeted onto my turkey.
“Um… it’s great.”
She nodded. Her smile widened.
“Really… really great. Thanks. Mmmm.”
“That’s good. Go on, finish that forkful.”
The whole table was watching now. Mom and dad exchanged glances while my older brother – who understood, if not condoned, my hatred of squash – winced.
I looked into my grandmother’s eyes. She smiled still, her teeth showing more and more every second; but her eyes, her eyes were drawn and tight. She was, in that moment, a wily fox.
I was caught!
As if to make the moment worse my grandmother’s dog, a high-strung poodle named Candy, nipped at my toes. I leapt from my feet, hoping to capitalize on the tragedy.
“Ow, ow! Candy bit me!”
Candy emerged from beneath the table at the mention of her name, looking for scraps. I would gladly have fed her squash ‘til her stomach burst.
“Bad Candy, bad,” said my grandmother, wagging one finger. She reached down and swatted Candy’s butt, enraging the dog and sending it away from the table with a growl.
Thinking my distraction had worked, I moved to scrape the squash from my fork. If nothing else I could pretend I’d already eaten it.
“Oh, Georgie! Done with your squash already?”
I halted again. Foiled!
“Um… no, was just… letting…”
“Letting…?” said my dad. You’re no help, father!
“My… fork rest…?”
“Oh, of course,” said my grandmother, leaning forward on her elbows. “It must be very heavy. But you know what would be a better idea?”
“What?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“If you ate that squash, your fork would be much lighter. And you would make me feel that much better about having worked hard to make it for you.”
A guilt trip! Oh, horror of horrors! I was trapped now.
“You know, Georgie,” continued my grandmother, clearly enjoying the torment, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you put any squash in your mouth. But I always hear from your parents how much you enjoyed it.”
I managed a feeble smile.
“So I’d love to see you have some. Just this once, Georgie.” She batted her eyelashes, great moth-like things.
“Go on, George, eat some squash,” said my mother. She nudged me hard from under the table.
I swallowed. The tension was high, and all eyes were on me. What was I to do? Did I even have a choice? I let my attention fall on the gravy boat – a splendid little silver dish with a swan’s head – but the boat didn’t help me with my problem.
“What’s the matter, Georgie?” asked my grandmother. “Do you not like my squash?”
My mom squeaked, almost imperceptibly, from across the table. I felt her nudges become more insistent. Mom has never been able to tell a host what she honestly thinks of their cooking, and she wasn’t about to let her children start.
“I… I…”
“Yeeeeeees?” said my grandmother.
“I… yeah, I’ll… okay…”
My fork dipped on its own. My arm couldn’t have done it through any command on my part. Actually eat squash? Voluntarily? Horrors!
But then, there was no voluntary component to this situation. I was trapped. My grandmother and I were two gunslingers at either end of the table, preparing for that one fateful shot that would bring the action to a head. Who would come out on top?
I felt the smooth consistency of the squash sliding its way onto the fork. Am I really adding more? I thought to myself. Am I upping the ante?
Apparently I was, and my grandmother looked suspicious about the bluff. She crossed her fingers, much like a super villain, and waited.
I lifted the fork away from the mound. It felt heavy, heavier than anything I’d ever lifted. I wanted it to suddenly and drastically increase in weight, to the point that my fork crashed through the table and created some unexpected new situation for us all to mull over.
But no. The weight remained constant. I could feel the steam from the squash snaking its way up my face, curling into and around my nose. Oh, that vile, vile heat!
The prongs touched my lips. I could taste it, now, taste the squash. My mouth felt as barren as a desert.
I looked at my grandmother.
With a kindly smile she looked back at me.
Gulping, I opened my mouth and shovelled in the squash.
Instantly my survival instinct kicked in. My tongue, acting in preservation of the whole, boldly partitioned the squash into two smaller mounds and crammed those mounds into opposite sides of my mouth. I’d fallen back on the old technique.
My throat safe, I quickly mimed a swallowing action. Wind whistled through my nose. I couldn’t open my mouth.
“Gooooood,” said my grandmother, clapping her hands together. “Good boy! Tastes delicious, right?”
I nodded vigorously. I felt like a giant bobble head.
“Ca…” I started, careful to keep my mouth shut. Apparently I didn’t notice the radical change in my voice. “Ca I ooh oo ah wahoom?”
“The what, dear?”
“Ah wahoom! I hab go bee!”
“Of course, dear! Don’t hold in that little bladder of yours!”
I scrambled off my seat and made for the washroom. My brother was giggling insanely; my mother looked mortified; dad was busy eating his peas; and grandma, precious, lovely grandma, looked ready to burst into jovial tears.
But, alas, that doesn’t account for every occupant of the room. And it came to be that the surliest among them, she who had been swatted on my account, sought revenge on my toes.
Candy, having taken up residence under my grandmother’s couch, darted out as my socks wandered by. With several high-pitched growls she attacked my toes, nibbling on the largest with a ferocity befitting so small a dog.
I’d not been prepared for her assault. In my surprise my mouth forgot that it was loaded down with disgusting, disgusting squash (which, I assure you, I already wasn’t much enjoying) and initiated a swallowing reaction.
Down the squash went. Right down the gullet.
My eyes bugged. My mom told me later that I looked like I’d been shot. They’d all heard my swallow, the ‘swallow heard ‘round the world’. Within seconds I was gagging on the floor as though I’d eaten poison.
Which, in my opinion, I had.
As my family laughed I lay rolling on the floor, my toes under attack by a spurned dog, gagging and lamenting, wishing I’d had a better method of squash disposal than spitting it in the toilet.
I have a better option now. As an adult you can politely refrain from eating whatever you want, so long as you fill up on something else. I haven’t eaten squash since.
But I’ll never forget the horrible feeling of creamy squash traveling down my throat, nor the merry laughter of my grandmother.
The laughter made it just a little more bearable.
But only a bit.
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