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Squash wedges roasted until their edges go sticky and golden, then doused in brown butter that smells of hazelnuts and scattered with sage leaves fried until they shatter between your teeth.
October. The clocks have gone back, the evenings arrive before you're ready, and the squash at the Saturday market are piled in crates like small, dense suns. I pick one up, weigh it in my hand, and that's supper sorted.
This is the dish I cook more than any other between October and Christmas. Squash wedges, roasted hot until the cut surfaces go deep gold and the edges caramelise into something almost toffee-like. Then brown butter, made in the time it takes the squash to come out of the oven, spooned over while it's still foaming and fragrant. Sage leaves dropped into the butter at the last moment, where they crisp and crackle and turn into something you'll eat straight from the pan if no one is watching.
A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. These are rough proportions, a starting point. Use more butter if you're feeling generous. Use less if you aren't. The squash will tell you what it needs, and your nose will tell you when the butter is ready. The whole thing takes about an hour, most of it hands-off, and the result is the kind of side dish that quietly takes over the table. I've served it beside a roast chicken and watched people go back for the squash.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. Just three words: squash, sage, butter. It didn't need more than that. It still doesn't.
Quantity
1 medium (about 1kg)
halved, seeds scooped out, cut into wedges
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
60g
Quantity
a small handful (about 12-15)
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
a few shavings
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| butternut or Crown Prince squashhalved, seeds scooped out, cut into wedges | 1 medium (about 1kg) |
| olive oil | 2 tablespoons |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| unsalted butter | 60g |
| fresh sage leaves | a small handful (about 12-15) |
| lemon juice | 1 tablespoon |
| Parmesan (optional) | a few shavings |
Set the oven high, around 210C/190C fan. Cut the squash in half lengthways, scoop out the seeds and fibres, and cut into wedges about two fingers thick. Leave the skin on. It holds the flesh together as it softens, and the edges where flesh meets skin go the most beautifully sticky. Toss the wedges in olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and lay them cut-side down on a large baking tray. Give them space. Crowded squash steams rather than roasts, and you want colour, not pallor.
Roast for thirty-five to forty-five minutes, turning the wedges once halfway through. You're looking for deep gold on the cut surfaces, soft flesh that yields when you press it with the back of a spoon, and edges that have gone slightly caramelised and sticky. The kitchen will smell sweet and nutty. That's the sugars doing their work. Don't pull them out early. Pale, undercooked squash is bland. The flavour lives in those browned edges.
While the squash finishes, put the butter in a small saucepan over a medium heat. Let it melt, then foam. Stir occasionally. Watch it. The milk solids will begin to turn golden, then amber, and the smell will shift from butter to something closer to hazelnuts and warm toast. This happens quickly once it starts. The moment it smells like that, drop in the sage leaves. They'll spit and hiss and crisp within ten seconds or so, curling at the edges and turning a deeper, almost translucent green. Pull the pan off the heat immediately. A squeeze of lemon juice into the butter. It will bubble furiously. Stir once.
Lay the roasted squash wedges on a warm serving plate or your favourite worn platter. Spoon the brown butter over them generously, letting it pool in the hollows and run down the sides. Scatter the crisp sage leaves on top. If you've got a piece of Parmesan in the fridge, a few shavings over the top won't hurt, though the dish doesn't need it. Season once more. Taste a corner. Carry it to the table while the butter is still glossy.
1 serving (about 175g)
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