When I was around 43, I terrorized my kids with a vegetable.

We were living in our North Berkeley creekside cottage. Katie was approaching 16 and Danny was around 9. I think both of them had gone vegetarian by then – certainly Katie had – and since I was never a meat lover I had no trouble refraining from purchase and preparation. I continued to eat fish and seafood, but those were my go-to choices when I dined out; I never brought meat into the kitchen. That’s an advantage, by the way, if you’re a lackadaisical cleaner like me. An untidy meatless kitchen is much safer and more savory than a mess with old meat.

I love winter squash. I don’t know why it’s called by the same name as the thin-skinned cucumber-like summer variety, which tastes boring. I love the substance and down-to-earth sweetness of acorn squash, butternut, and their cousins.

And I enjoy pasta. Especially the stuff I can twirl around a fork. I think it’s a crime to break spaghetti before cooking it.

So I thought it was a miracle that nature combined winter squash with stringy texture. Shortly after I was introduced to spaghetti squash I bought one, carried it home, and prepared it for serving while I prepared my kids for a treat.

Well. They hated it. They more than hated it: they loathed and despised it. They looked at me with horror, like I was some alien who clearly didn’t understand them if I could even consider serving such vile victuals to them. They acted like the plates holding their portions were reverse magnets to their bellies, pushing them in their chairs away from our small square table.

To this day, they look at me without humor when I mention spaghetti squash. If they’re together their eyes seek each other’s and bond again in agreement. And neither will eat ANY kind of winter squash.

I hope to live long enough and wisely enough to understand.