My appreciation for most summer produce borders on veneration. If I close my eyes, even in the winter months, I can still conjure their more sensual qualities in my mind: the glossy curves of a tomato, the velvety weight of a peach, the way a perfectly ripe blackberry pops between teeth, leaving a sweet, inky stain on the tongue. Never once had I dreamt of yellow squash.
I don't quite know when I developed the notion that yellow summer squash, with its tender skin and watery flesh, was dull, but that opinion stuck with me for quite a while. At least a few times every June or July, I'd buy some out of a sense of duty towards seasonal cooking, only to let them languish in my crisper drawer until their exterior was no longer taut and I'd have to hurriedly make use of them. The results, as you might imagine, were never great. There were far too many sautéed slices that went limp when they hit the plate, far too many "I'll just wing it!" plays on ratatouille.
