Donato kicked the door open dressed as the Grim Reaper. Black cloak, hood down to his nose, and a scythe made from a stick and our serving spoon. He pointed at us. Slowly. The bastard had definitely rehearsed this.
“Tonight, I've come for a soul.”
“Take that bucket first, mate. It's in the way,” said Nicanora.
We were making Halloween dinner. Tontulio's plastic fangs fell out whenever he spoke, and we had a squash on the table. Donato expected screams. He got an apron. We tied it over his cloak with a lovely bow on his arse.
Death can do the peeling
We made roast squash with feta and honey. Sweet, salty, golden at the edges, with juices worth mopping up until you lose all dignity. For four human side portions, you need 1 kg of peeled, deseeded squash, 3 tablespoons of olive oil, 1 teaspoon of sweet paprika, 150 g of feta and 1 tablespoon of honey. Plus a little salt and pepper. We brought out the big plates. The ones we use when guests come and we pretend we've got manners.
We used a fresh butternut squash. The pumpkin that had spent three days by the door with a candle inside stayed there. Tontulio wanted to use it because it was already hollow. We sent him for bread before he found a use for the wax as well.
We heated the oven to 200°C conventional or 180°C fan. We peeled the squash, removed the seeds and cut it into roughly equal cubes, about two and a half centimetres across. Donato said peeling spoiled his menacing presence. We pointed out that a spoon tied to a stick wasn't exactly fucking terrifying either.
We tossed the cubes with the oil, paprika, a pinch of salt and the pepper. Easy on the salt, because feta brings plenty. Then we spread them on a baking tray lined with baking paper, in one layer with room between them. Use two trays if necessary. Pile them up and they'll steam in their own moisture. Then everyone complains about their soggy dinner.
Donato tried arranging the pieces into a skull. He managed two eyes and a huge heap of squash for the nose. Nicanora spread the lot out with the spoon. She'd already dismantled his scythe. Death was left with a stick, paprika on his nose and considerably less authority.
“You lot have no bloody respect.”
“We're letting you cook. That's much scarier.”
Keep a close eye on the cheese
The tray went into the oven for 35 to 45 minutes. We turned the cubes halfway through. The squash and your oven have the final say: it's ready when the edges are golden and a fork slips in easily. Still firm? Give it a few more minutes. While we waited, Donato guarded the feta. What a spectacular mistake.
First he evened up one corner. Then the other, because the block looked wonky. By the time we found him, he had cheese in his eyebrows. He pulled down his hood and chewed very slowly, as if that made it silent. Tontulio watched with his fangs in his hand. We were laughing so hard we could barely get the tray out.
Out of the oven, we crumbled the feta over the squash and drizzled on the honey. Honey goes on at the end so it doesn't burn during roasting. We let the fiercest heat subside and sat down. Tender squash, salty cheese, and not a single spooky noise. Just bread scraping across plates.
Donato had seconds. Then thirds, claiming he was skin and bones under his robe. Nicanora examined his cloak. She recognised a round stain by the neck and tugged it off. It was her tablecloth. The shameless sod had cut a hole in it for his head.
He stood there in duck-print underpants, clutching his plate. The Grim Reaper. In little duckies.
“How the fuck am I meant to walk home now?”
We lent him a napkin. He left with great dignity. Five minutes later, someone knocked. Donato was back, walking on his knees with the napkin over his head.
“I'm his son. Dad says children can have seconds.”
Nicanora sat him on her lap and filled his plate. We were crying with laughter.
“Eat up, sweetheart. And tell your dad to shave his knees. They're prickly when we pick him up.”
