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.
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My Monday was uneventful -- laundry, cleaning, organizing, etc. The weather was gorgeous -- it finally feels like fall -- so it was a perfect day to sweep the deck, feed the birds, and take a long walk. We had veggie pasta with farm-made sauce we bought at Something Earthy on the Countryside Artisans Tour.
Evening TV was mostly the Red Sox (beating the Astros, yay!) with occasional check-ins on the Bills game (which they blew to the Titans), though we checked in on Antiques Roadshow long enough to see that we didn't own any secret valuables. Squash and gourds we saw at Homestead Farm on Sunday:
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