Good Eats (1999–2012): Season 14, Episode 11 - Squash Court II - full transcript

(grunts) When I was a kid,
I watched "Green Acres" a lot.

It always kinda stressed me out,

because I was on Eva Gabor's
side of the equation--

you know, Times Square,
the shopping, nice restaurants.

I dug that.
The idea of, you know,

riding around in a tractor,
sloppin' the pigs

didn't really ring my bell.

But nowadays,
they call gardening

"domestic terraforming."

It's got kind of a nice,
post-survivalist sound to it.

And I dig that,
so this season



I decided to, uh,

plant my personal favorite
summer vegetable--squash--

in, I don't know,
a half-dozen of its, uh,

hundred-plus forms
just around the house here.

Now I know summer squash
are, you know, very mild.

They don't deliver big flavors.

And even zucchini isn't
really flashy or fashionable.

But they are extremely, uh,
plentiful, fast-growing.

They're nice-looking.
They're versatile.

And they're available
year-round.

And believe it or not,

um, all the summer squashes,
um, have subtle flavors

that play into the hands
of the skilled culinarian,

who, through artful application
of flavorants and heat,



can convert just about
any old cucurbita pepo into...

♪♪

Good Eats.

All right,
before we get started,

let us review a few
garden-variety summer squashes.

Here, of course, we have
the yellow crookneck...
(bell dings)

a classic--

uh, the Italian variation...
(bell dings)

which is the zucchini.

We have, uh, globe squash...
(bell dings)

which are also called
apple squashes.

They come in various sizes
and colors,

as do the pattypan squashes...
(bell dings)

uh, different sizes.

This one--check that out.

Looks like a flying saucer,
doesn't it? Yeah, it does.

And check this one out.
This is the, uh--the zephyr.
(bell dings)

That is a new hybrid, actually,

a cross between
the yellow crookneck

and the, uh,
delicata squash,

which is actually
a winter variety.

Now botanically speaking,

all squashes are berries,
seed-bearing bodies.

And they're closely related
to the winter squashes,

to melons,
and to gourds,

which are, you know,
great for crafts,

you know, like making
birdhouses and...
(rattling)

if you're into
that sort of thing.

Um, squashes are, of course,
all native Americans.

The word "squash"

comes from askoot asquash,

which is Algonquin

for "eaten green,"

an obvious reference to the fact
that summer squash are best

when they're harvested

just a week after their
flower fully opens.

Of course, many squash specimens
are popular with gardeners,

because if properly cared for,

they grow and grow,
and then they keep growing.

And then they grow
a little more,

until finally, well--
impressive.

(British accent) Oh, hello,
have you seen my aunts about?

One's thin and tall,
and the other's quite fat,

both rather nasty,
I'm afraid.

Uh, sorry, kid, no. I-I haven't
seen your aunts around.

Excellent.
Okay.

Um, the bigger they get,
the more fibrous

and unpalatable they become,

so try to pick or purchase
smallish or medium specimens

with, uh, smooth, shiny skins.

Scratches or little gouges,
well, like that--not a big deal.

But avoid soft spots
and browning.

(grunts) And when it comes
to storage,

tender little squashes
are like time bombs,

and the clock is ticking away.

I mean, sure, if you wrap them
in paper towels

to prevent surface condensation

and then stashed them
in a zip-top

and suck out all the air
before sealing and storing

in the warmest part
of the fridge,

which is up here and not
down in the crisper drawer,

you'll get, oh,
maybe three days

of optimum, uh, freshness
out of these.

But the truth is, uh,
when the season really hits,

the best thing that you
can do is arm yourself

with a wide range
of anticipatory applications

that can be implemented
at a moment's notice.

Since these zucchini were
my first squash of the year,

it makes sense to prepare
a first course from them

in the form of a salad--

a noodle salad
where the noodles will,

in fact, be fabricated
from 2 pounds of zucchini.

Now grab yourself
a sharp vegetable peeler,

and, uh, harp-style
is the best for the job.

Make sure your zucchinis
are clean.

Lay them down and peel,

rotating as you go.

And just keep peeling
and turning

until you get down
to the seedy core,

which you may discard.

Just repeat
with the other specimens.

Wobbly and floppy though
these zucchini pieces may be,

they don't look
anything like noodles.

But if I add a teaspoon
of kosher salt to the party

and just park in a colander
in the sink for 30 minutes,

that'll all change.

Why? Because it's--
come here.

(grunts) Now let's--
let's say for a moment

that this is, uh,
a piece of zucchini

fresh from the garden.

Yeah, I know
it's just a stack of boxes.

Work with me, okay?
Now, um, in its fresh state,

it is stiff, what plant
people call turgid.
(knocks)

why? Well, the cell walls
are--are certainly, um,

you know, stiff structures.

But the real secret
is inside here.

See, if you cut away
the cell wall,

you'll see that the cells

are full of little bags,
all right?

It's called the cell membrane,

and it's packed
with all the structures

that the cell needs
to do its business.

It's also packed
full of water

that's actually under pressure,
all right?

Now here we come, um,

with our--our salt, okay.

And the salt dissolves
into a brine,

which will literally
pull moisture

out of the membrane--

the, uh, osmotic pressure,
which we've seen in brines.

And that looks
kinda like this.

Now it's only a matter of time

before that inner membrane
simply collapses,

something we call a hypertonic
state will be achieved,

and then the cell will
actually plasmolyze

and pull away
from the cell wall.

And then the structure
collapses every time.

If managed properly,

this will result
not in mushiness,

but in a dense
yet, well, floppy structure,

kind of like,
well, a noodle.

There, see what I mean?

Just like noodles.

Okay, they're still green,
but they look like noodles.

All right,
into a large mixing bowl

goes 3 tablespoons
of extra virgin olive oil--

use the best you've got--

2 tablespoons of freshly
squeezed lemon juice,

2 teaspoons
of whole-grain mustard

and up to 1/2 a teaspoon

of freshly ground
black pepper.

And just whisk this together
to form an emulsion.

This, of course,
is a vinaigrette,

even though technically it
doesn't have any vinegar in it.

There. Now add
the zucchini noodles

along with half
a small red onion

sliced wafer thin,

a cup of torn frisée.

It's a type of chicory

easily found in you in your
megamart's produce department.

And 1/3 cup each
thinly sliced radishes,

chopped toasted almonds,

chopped fresh basil leaves.

Last but not least--
1 ounce of manchego cheese,

a.k.a. the parmesan of Spain,

which can be easily shaved

with the very same
vegetable peeler from before.

What a multitasker.

All right, toss with these
to combine.

Delicious. You know,
if you closed your eyes

and didn't know you were
eating strips of squash,

you would think
they were, well,

the food that made
Sophia Loren famous--pasta.

Of course, we all know
that zucchini

is as Italian
as Sophia Loren herself,

and yet, as previously stated,

all squash are American
in origin.

What gives?
Cultural cross-pollination.

Spanish explorers
brought squash seeds

back to the old world
from the new,

where they were planted

and various characteristics
encouraged

through generations
of selective cross-breeding.

Now if you are
an art enthusiast,

you might argue that zucchini
must have been born

prior to 1580,

when Vincenzo Campi

completed his "Fruttivendolo,"

which clearly depicts

a basket of zucchini
with blossoms.

But upon closer examination,

we see these are
actually cocozelle,

a close ancestor
of the modern zucchini,

which did not emerge
until the 20th century--

actually,
back-migrated to the U.S.

between the First
and Second World Wars.

Nice painting, though.

Well, the squash
are really comin' in,

I can tell you that.

And one of the best things
about summer squash

is that they are all
universally interchangeable.

Now take
yellow crookneck squash.

Although we Southerners
are infamous

for either stewing them to death

or smothering them in cheese
and mayo and baking them,

they are equally well-suited
to a Roman role

that is classically played
by zucchini.

First step--
set your oven rack

to, say, 3 to 4 inches
from the very top burner,

and, uh, set your heat control
to broil.
(beeps)

next you're gonna want
to knock down a pound of squash

into thin,
we'll say 1/8-inch slices.

True, I am fond of my steel,

but this is a job
for a mandoline.

"Mandoline"
is a pretty French term

for any fixed-blade device
designed to slice food

by means of sliding it
up and down an adjustable plane

into which a blade
has been set.

Now two types
predominate the marketplace.

First you have the more
traditional stand model.

You've seen this on the--
the program before.

This device is like a factory.

It's capable of fabricating
many different cuts,

various forms of slices,
juliennes, matchsticks,

even waffle cuts,
if you know what you're doing.

Uh, it's expensive.

It's got a lot of parts
that you have to keep up with,

um, maintaining
and adusting everything.

It's a chore.
And, well, cleaning it--

well, nine times out of ten,
I just leave it in the drawer

and use a knife.

Now if I'm gonna use a slicer
like this or a mandoline,

it's gonna be
a hand model.

There's still
plenty of variation,

but my favorite is
this little guy, all right?

Now it is lightweight.
It's plastic.

Um, it's only capable

of four different
thicknesses of cuts,

which is all I need
99% of the time.

And it has a very economical

and very sharp ceramic blade.

Never needs sharpening,
it's easy to clean.

And because it's set
at this angle,

it's great for slicing
softer items like...
(man) Hands!

Excuse me.

Just as I suspected,
it's our Safety Officer Sam.

"S.O.S." for short.

Our insurance company
now requires

that he be on set
at all times.
Safety first.

Second is--
put that down.
Sorry.

It's dangerous.
Okay.

Now when you're considering
buying a P.D.B.I.,

you should
always think--
P.D.P.?

P.D.B.I.--potentially deadly
bladed implement.
(whispering) Okay.

When you are thinking
of buying a--
(normal voice) I don't
really think of this

as potentially
deadly.
Oh, no?

How do you think
I got this, huh?

Smart guy.
Really? Did you make this?
'cause this doesn't look like--

Yes. Nobody will
insure me anymore.
Well, that's ironic.

Now as I was saying,
when purchasing such an item,

one should always consider first
the A.U.S.I., which--

A.U.S.I.?
Yes, the active user
safety interface.

(groans)
You mean--
you mean the hand guard.

Yeah, okay, if you want to dumb
it down, the "hand guard,"

which is always
the last item

on any manufacturer's
to-design list.

In fact,
most of these models

do not even cover
the entire R.O.M.--

range of motion.

(sighs) Some of them
even pose a threat themselves.

Consider
the retractable spikes

on this little death trap
right here.

It's supposed to hold on
to the food

while--while you're
cutting it.

Now go ahead
and give that a shot.

No, that's gonna go
into your--
Yeah, di-di-di-di-di--
just give it a shot.

(winces and groans)

Perfectly fine,
just illustrating a point.

I think you illustrated
several points, actually.

Now given the general lack
of E.O.U.--

ease of use--

I strongly recommend
adding one of these

to your safety protocol--

either a Kevlar glove
or a reinforced safety glove.

Wow, I bet one of these
babies would stop

a spinnin'
food processor blade.
Yeah, one would think.

Oh, dear.
No.

But they will prevent
any sort of lacerations

caused by misuse or disuse

of the P.D.B.I.A.U.S.I.
Got it.

S.O.S., thank's so much
for joining us today on set.
(wincing)

We've learned so much.
You have a safe day, okay?
(inhales sharply)

You, too.
(groans)
Okay.

Let's cut something,
shall we?

Like, say, 1 pound
of small summer squash

1/8 of an inch thick,
if you please. Nice.

Yes, I realize I wasn't using

my A.U.S.--hand guard,

but at least I was using
my Kevlar glove.

All right, now toss your rounds

with a tablespoon of olive oil,

1 tablespoon
of fresh rosemary, chopped,

1/2 teaspoon of nutmeg.

Yes, of course I mean
freshly ground nutmeg--

one of these.
That's right.

And then 1 teaspoon
of kosher salt,

and last but not least,
1/4 teaspoon of black pepper.

Toss to combine.

Lay the slices out
on a cooling rack,

although the name doesn't
really apply in this case,

uh, and then set that
inside a sheet pan.

Broil until the, uh, squash
is golden brown,

uh, just on one side,
eight to ten minutes,

depending, of course,
upon the power of your broiler.

Nine minutes later,

and our squash rounds are
golden brown and delicious,

but not burned.

That's because there's
so much water in summer squash

to begin with, nearly 95%,
or at least there used to be.

Uh, these are now perfectly
conditioned for inclusion

in our little Roman delight--
a frittata.

That's right,
squash and eggs

work and play
very well together.

Move the squash to a 10-inch
nonstick skillet

and set over medium heat.

Then combine 1/2 cup
of whole milk ricotta cheese

with 6 large eggs and 1/2 ounce
of parmesan cheese, grated.

Whisk to combine
until very, very smooth,

kinda like this.

Then just pour that
right over the squash.

There. Let this cook
for four to five minutes

or until the, uh, center
is bubbly,

and the outer edge is set,
just like that.

Ah, all right, broil
for three to four minutes,

just to, uh, fully set
and lightly brown.

And no,
you don't have to worry

about putting a nonstick pan
under the broiler

and, uh, creating
any harmful fumes,

because most
of the nonstick surface

is, in fact,
covered with food.

Besides, it's a very short
amount of time.

Behold the union
of egg and summer squash,

Italian style.

Slightly curled up
around the edges--

that's exactly what you want.

Now as far as getting this out,

just give the pan a tap,
a wiggle,

and out it should come.

Now as far as cutting this,

you would never
ever use a knife.

Nope, a pizza cutter is
the, uh, tool for the job.

After all,
it looks like a pizza.

So just slice through.

And I'm gonna go
for about six pieces here.

Now if we were in Rome,

which we are not,

we would wait and serve this

at room temperature.

But, uh, the way this smells
and the way this looks,

I don't think I should
have to wait a single moment.

Mmm. Hot. Hot.
Ho, ho, hot.

(panting)
Man, things are...

getting a little crazy
out there.

I mean, in the last 24 hours,

I've executed every squash
application in my possession,

but they just keep on growing.

But do you know what?
It's okay.

It's okay, because the pattypans
are crankin' hard,

and they are
some of my favorites.

Now small specimens like this
I'll just, uh, run onto skewers

and, uh--and grill
over medium heat.

But these larger models--
3 to 4 inches across--

these are born to be stuffed,

which brings me
to the three sisters.

You are radiant today
and looking lovelier than usual.

And Masha is lovely, too.

Andrei would be nice-looking,
but he has grown too fat.

You talk such nonsense.
I am tired of looking at you.

Yes. To Moscow,
and quickly.

Actually,
I wasn't talking

about Chekhov's
"Three Sisters."
(Russian accent)
Captain, captain,

we've located
the nuclear wessels.
Thank you, Mr. Chekov.

Aye, captain.

I was talking about America's
three sisters, of course,

uh, which would be corn,
squash, and beans.

Native Americans learned
to grow them together

not only because they represent
a complete protein

when served together,

but because they form

a perfect agricultural
community.

Traditionally,
the corn was planted first.

And when it was
about 6 inches tall,

the beans and squash
were planted around it.

The beans used the corn stalks
for support,

and the squash hogged
all the sunlight

around the base of the mound,
thus choking out weeds.

The beans also fixed nitrogen
in the soil,

and the squash provided mulch.

Our next journey
into squash-dom begins

with a half sheet pan
or other roasting dish

in a 400-degree oven.

Let that heat for 15 minutes.

Now we whittle ourselves
some squash.

I have four
pattypan squash here.

Well, actually,
I've got about 400,

but that's another story.

I'm gonna trim off just
a little bit of the stem end

and then halve them.

I'm just kind of rocking
the squash back and forth

against the serrated blade.

Notice I am using my, uh--
my safety gloves.

If you don't have those,
you could use

just an old towel
or something.

Once you have them halved,
use just a big service spoon

or even a teaspoon to kind of
carve out a little bowl,

getting most of the, uh--
the seeds.

And make sure you save
those, uh, squash guts,

'cause we're gonna
need them later on.

There. Once everything
is hollowed out,

at least a little bit,
uh, sprinkle on

about a tablespoon of olive oil,
1/2 a teaspoon of kosher salt,

and 1/4 teaspoon
of black pepper.

There.

Place the squash halves
cut side down

on the hot pan
to sear them

and then roast for 15 minutes.

In the meantime,
you can prepare the filling.

While the squash is roasting,
we prepare the filling.

Place a 10-inch
cast-iron skillet

over medium heat and add
a tablespoon of olive oil--

just plain old olive oil,

not extra virgin
or anything fancy.

When that is good and hot,

add one minced clove of garlic,

one diced shallot,

and the chopped-up guts

that you spooned
out of the squash.

Season that with
a 1/2 teaspoon of kosher salt

and 1/4 teaspoon
of black pepper.

Once the aromatics and squash
are brown and tender,

bring on the other two sisters--

1/2 a cup of freshly harvested
corn kernels

and 1/2 a cup
of cooked lima beans,

as well as a couple of ounces
of chopped pecans,

not a sister, mind you,

but an American original
nonetheless.

We'll call it stepbrother.

And 3 teaspoons

of fresh thyme leaves.

Remove the squash from the oven,

and then use a disher
to deliver, say,

3 tablespoons of filling

to each half of the squash.

There--a perfect
opener or side

for an all-American
summer sit-down.

Of course, um, even with fine
applications like this on tap,

if you grow your own squash,

odds are good you're not gonna
be able to keep up with it.

If that be the case,
be prepared to freeze.

♪♪

Mmm. Label,
then return to the freezer,

confident in the fact
that come midwinter,

you can prepare
this, this, or this

any old time you like.

Now if you'll excuse me,
I'm gonna finish my squash,

and then take my machete
and try to hack my way

through all of those vines
down to the mailbox.

Wish me luck.