Abóbora

Sweet squash goes flabby without a bitter herb pulling against it.

Roast sugars in the squash, Maillard sugars in the butter. Same note twice.

Squash sugar is flat on its own; the bark gives it an edge and a top note.

Pie spice is mostly this. The burn is what keeps the custard from cloying.

Squash and nutmeg share terpenes, so it reads as more squash, not more spice.

Salt and glutamate turn dessert flavour back into dinner.

Cured fat sticks to roasted sugar and stops it cloying.

Two starchy sweets; chestnut brings the tannin pumpkin has none of.

Seed and flesh from the same fruit — one sweet, one green, both roasted.

Flat squash sugar needs a numbing bitterness or the pie reads as baby food.

Three spices in one berry, which is exactly what a squash pie wants.

Sweet collapsed squash under salt beef. The Northeast layers them and calls it a hiding place.

Same plant, two halves. The flesh is sweet and the seed oil is burnt.

Smoke and heat against sugar. The Mexican reading, not the American one.

Fermented salt on caramelised squash, no dairy needed.

Lactones in the milk stretch the squash into something tropical.

Sweet squash flesh wants a bitter black speck, not more cinnamon.

Squash sugar with warm pepper on it, which is a better pie than the usual.

Sweet flesh with no texture at all, which is exactly what the blend is for.

Bitter cocoa reins in the sugar; both live on pyrazines anyway.

Sweet flesh takes warm pepper better than the American pie blend does.

Barrel vanillin and roast squash share the same caramel spine.