The first time I tasted a winter squash, naturally it was butternut. I was at a restaurant, and the menu item that intimidated me least was a ravioli filled with butternut squash and goat cheese. Not yet an adventurous eater, I had never tasted either. The kind server explained that butternut squash tastes like sweet potatoes and goat cheese is like fancier cream cheese. As I recall, the sauce was primarily melted butter. There were also likely fried sage leaves on the scene. This was the ’90s. I declared these ravioli the best thing I’d ever eaten.
So you can imagine how excited I was a while later, when a friend and professional chef offered to make us squash and goat cheese ravioli for dinner one crisp autumn night. Things were going great: The filling had the rich, savory, balanced quality I remember from my introduction to squash at that restaurant. He substituted wonton wrappers for homemade pasta to form the ravioli, a shortcut I use to this day.
Unfortunately, it all went very wrong when he drizzled the sauce, a maple “gastrique,” all over the just-boiled ravioli. I tasted one and thought: Ruined. I could have melted a stick of butter to pour over these, and we would have had a better dinner.
It should be against the law to combine already-plenty-sweet winter squash with apples, maple syrup, brown sugar, figs, honey or raisins. I’ve read many recipes for squash that call for more than one of these and then throw in cinnamon or another pumpkin pie spice, resulting in . . . dessert. These cloyingly sweet recipes work against everything that makes great cooking: Complexity, contrast, balance and depth.