Squash Blossoms and Squash Bugs

My dad used to talk about some elderly neighbors of ours, Roy and Flossie Webb, who were “so tight they even fried squash blossoms.” Any deviation from meat, potatoes and a vegetable, preferably soggy, was viewed with suspicion in our neck of the woods. I do not come from one of the great culinary traditions—all of our “old family recipes” are from the label of a cream of mushroom soup can. The Webbs were from the South, and perhaps had higher culinary expectations than the rest of the neighborhood did.

When my squash started producing this summer, I thought I’d broaden my food horizons and cut down on production a bit by frying up some of the blossoms. It turns out you can have your zucchini and fry the blossoms too. Squash produces both male and female flowers. The male flowers have a longer, thinner stem, and the female blossoms hug the stems. You can eat quite a few of the male ones, and still have zucchini to unload.

I stuffed my blossoms with a mixture of cream cheese, garlic and hot sauce, dipped them in egg, rolled them in cornmeal, and fried them in a little bit of oil for a minute or so on each side. But if the internet is anything to go by, you could stuff them with nearly anything, or not at all, and use virtually any breading or batter. Heck, they’d probably even be good with cream of mushroom soup.

Raising squash isn’t all blossoms to fry and zucchini to give away, though, if you get hit by the dreaded squash bug, as I have been this summer. Squash bugs are grayish or brownish insects over half an inch long, and they look a little like Darth Vader.  Given how destructive they are, it’s an apt disguise. If the infestation is serious, they kill plants. Some of the sources I consulted said that the saliva is poisonous to the plants, and one source suggested that squash bugs carry bacteria which causes wilt.

Squash bugs are picky eaters. They don’t go after Zucchini if they have a choice. They do love the little yellow crook-neck squash, though. They are hard on most winter squashes and pumpkins, but I’ve read that they don’t like the royal acorn squash. When you order seeds, look for varieties that resist squash bugs.

Their depredations have already killed one of my squash plants, and a couple others seem to be in jeopardy. If I weren’t gardening organically, I’d reach for a strong chemical insect killer. Next year, I’ll grow my squash under floating row covers, but it’s too late for that now. Some gardeners have had success by putting diatomaceous earth under the plants, which they reapply every time it rains. Others mention that they interplant with marigolds, mint, or catnip, as these plants seem to repel the bugs.

However, I’m dealing with my infestation the old fashioned way—I’m squashing my squash bugs. Every morning, after I harvest the little crook-necks and zucchini, I spray water on the soil beneath the plants. The bugs come out to avoid the water, and I collect all I can. Then I hunt for eggs.

Squash bugs lay their eggs on the underside of squash leaves, usually where the veins fork. I go after the eggs with a toothpick. Picking the eggs is tedious work, and it’s led me to some philosophical speculation.

Here’s the question I’ve been pondering this summer: Do squash bugs have personalities? They seem to be gregarious insects, and I’ve found clusters of half a dozen of them, having what I’m sure is a party on my pumpkins. It’s the egg deposits that really suggest Squash Bug A might be different from Squash Bug B. There’s usually upwards of a dozen eggs in a clutch, if that’s what you’d call them. Sometimes the eggs are in a neat, tight triangle at the intersection of the leaf veins. Other times, the eggs are spread out haphazardly, and sometimes a squash bug has so little self-respect it lays eggs on the stems or even on the upper surface of the leaf.

But enough of these speculations. If I’m going to have pumpkin pie this Thanksgiving, I’d better get my light saber—er, my toothpick, and go do battle with the forces of evil.

When Teresa Howell isn't squashing bugs, she teaches English at Great Basin College.