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Butternut Squash and Carrot Soup — The Kitchen That Smelled Like Autumn Visiting

Late October and the pumpkins are everywhere — on porches, in store windows, at the farmers market in stacks that look like small orange monuments. Miya wants a pumpkin. Specifically, she wants "the big one," which is always the biggest pumpkin available, because three-year-olds have no concept of proportion and maximum ambition. We bought a pumpkin that weighs more than she does and I carried it to the car while she supervised from the stroller with the authority of a construction foreman.

I made Fumiko's kabocha no nimono for the blog — the simmered kabocha in dashi-soy broth that is the definitive fall recipe in my repertoire. The kabocha from Carol's booth, dense and orange-fleshed. The cuts irregular, as Fumiko specified — "the uneven pieces cook differently and that is correct." The simmering slow. The broth absorbed. Each piece glazed and tender. The apartment smelled like the recipe card promised: "like autumn visiting your kitchen." I wrote about it with the specificity Dana taught me — not "the kitchen smelled good" but "the kitchen smelled like dashi and soy sauce and the sweet vegetal steam of kabocha surrendering to heat." The blog post was one of my best. The readers agreed. Three hundred shares. The writing is getting better. I am getting better. The getting-better is the practice.

Halloween is next week and Miya wants to be a cat. Last year she was "a baby," which required no costume, just existing. This year she has opinions. Opinions are a milestone they don't put in the baby books: the day your child becomes a person with preferences, a person who chooses cat over ghost, who insists on black whiskers, who has a vision. I am making the costume from a black shirt and felt ears and my sewing skills, which are adequate in the way that my marriage is adequate — functional enough to pass inspection, not inspired enough to be called good.

The food magazine responded to my essay submission: they want it. Seventy-five dollars and a byline and my name in a publication that isn't my blog. The larger magazine has not responded, which means no, probably. But the yes from the small magazine is a yes. A yes is a door. A door is a beginning. I told Brian, who said "that's great, babe" while watching football, and the response was warm and distracted and exactly what I expected and I am tired of expecting exactly what I get from this man and getting exactly what I expect. The cycle is a wheel and the wheel is wearing a groove in the road and the groove is my life.

I told my therapist about the essay acceptance. She said, "You're a writer." I said, "I'm a yoga teacher who writes." She said, "When you win an argument with yourself, let me know." She is right. The argument is between the woman I am and the woman I have permission to be, and the permission is the only thing standing between them.

The kabocha no nimono was already written and published and shared three hundred times over, but the season wasn’t finished with me yet — and I wasn’t finished with it. Making something slow and orange and fragrant that fills a kitchen with the smell of autumn arriving: that’s what I needed again, in a different form, on a different Tuesday. This butternut squash and carrot soup is the approachable cousin of Fumiko’s recipe — no dashi, no specialty market required, just the same essential truth that fall squash, given time and heat and a little patience, will surrender into something that tastes exactly like permission to sit down and stay a while.

Butternut Squash and Carrot Soup

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 40 min | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 6

Ingredients

  • 1 medium butternut squash (about 2 1/2 lbs), peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes
  • 4 large carrots, peeled and chopped
  • 1 medium yellow onion, diced
  • 3 cloves garlic, minced
  • 4 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
  • 1 cup water
  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
  • 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
  • 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
  • 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1/4 cup heavy cream or coconut cream (optional, for finishing)
  • Fresh thyme or pepitas, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

  1. Sauté aromatics. Warm the olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the diced onion and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5–6 minutes until softened and translucent. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
  2. Add squash and carrots. Add the cubed butternut squash and chopped carrots to the pot. Stir to coat with the oil and aromatics. Cook for 3–4 minutes, letting the vegetables begin to soften at the edges.
  3. Season and add liquid. Sprinkle in the ginger, cumin, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Stir to bloom the spices for 30 seconds. Pour in the vegetable broth and water. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat.
  4. Simmer low and slow. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover partially, and simmer for 25–30 minutes, until the squash and carrots are completely tender and yield easily to a fork. The patience here is the recipe.
  5. Blend until smooth. Remove from heat. Using an immersion blender, blend the soup directly in the pot until completely smooth and silky. Alternatively, transfer in batches to a countertop blender, venting the lid carefully. Blend until no chunks remain.
  6. Finish and adjust. Stir in the heavy cream or coconut cream, if using. Return to low heat for 2–3 minutes to warm through. Taste and adjust salt and pepper as needed. The soup should be velvety, golden, and gently spiced.
  7. Serve. Ladle into bowls and garnish with a swirl of cream, a few pepitas, or a sprig of fresh thyme. Serve with crusty bread for a complete fall meal.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 165 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 7g | Carbs: 26g | Fiber: 5g | Sodium: 320mg

Jen Nakamura
About the cook who shared this
Jen Nakamura
Week 183 of Jen’s 30-year story · Portland, Oregon
Jen is a forty-year-old yoga instructor and divorced mom in Portland who traded panic attacks for plants and never looked back. She's Japanese-American on her father's side — third-generation, with a family history that includes wartime internment and generational silence — and white on her mother's. Her cooking is plant-forward, intuitive, and deeply influenced by both her Japanese grandmother's techniques and the Pacific Northwest farmers market she visits every Saturday rain or shine. Which in Portland means mostly rain.

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