I stand in my kitchen, a butternut squash in one hand and a peeler in the other, and I hesitate. The peel stares back at me, its tough, unyielding surface daring me to make a decision. Should I peel it? Or is this one of those moments where I can embrace sustainability and leave it on? The truth is, I’m not sure. And so begins the internal debate that has become a recurring theme in my cooking life: to peel or not to peel?
It’s not that I don’t want to be sustainable. I do. I really do. I’ve read the articles, seen the Instagram posts, and felt the quiet guilt every time I toss a pile of peels into the compost bin. But the question lingers: can I actually eat this? And if I can, should I?
Take the butternut squash, for example. Its peel is thick, almost leathery, and seems about as edible as a piece of cardboard. But what if I boiled it? Would it soften enough to blend into a soup? Or would it remain stubbornly fibrous, ruining an otherwise perfect dish? I don’t know, and the uncertainty is paralysing.
Then there’s the pumpkin. Its seeds, I know, are fair game—roasted with a bit of salt and olive oil, they’re a crunchy, nutritious snack. But the peel? That’s another story. It’s thinner than the butternut squash’s, but still tough. Could I roast it along with the flesh, letting it caramelise into something edible? Or would it just be a chewy, unpleasant distraction?
I’ve had successes, of course. Potato peels, tossed with olive oil and salt, transform into crispy, golden chips that are impossible to resist. Citrus peels, candied or zested, add a burst of brightness to desserts and cocktails. And cucumber skins? I’ve learned to leave them on, their crunch and vibrant green colour adding both texture and visual appeal to salads.
But for every success, there’s a failure. For the time I tried to leave the peel on a sweet potato, only to end up with a dish that was more chewy than comfortable. Or the experiment with unpeeled carrots, where the skins added an unpleasant bitterness that no amount of roasting could fix.
So how do I decide? I’ve started to develop a set of guidelines, a kind of mental flowchart for peel-related decisions. First, I consider the texture. Is the peel thin and tender, like that of an apple or a cucumber? If so, it’s probably safe to leave it on. Is it thick and tough, like a butternut squash or a pineapple? Then it’s likely better off in the compost bin—unless I’m feeling particularly adventurous.
Next, I think about flavour. Does the peel add something to the dish, like the earthy bitterness of eggplant skin or the bright zest of citrus? Or does it detract, like the waxy coating on some supermarket apples?
Finally, I consider the cooking method. Will heat transform the peel into something delicious, like the crispy edges of roasted potato skins? Or will it remain stubbornly inedible, no matter what I do?
It’s not an exact science, and I’m still learning. But what I’ve come to realize is that the peel is more than just scraps—it’s an opportunity. An opportunity to experiment, to reduce waste, and to discover new flavours and textures. And while I may not always get it right, I’m willing to keep trying.
So the next time I find myself standing in the kitchen, peeler in hand, I’ll take a moment to think. To consider the possibilities. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll leave the peel on. After all, sustainability isn’t just about the big gestures—it’s about the small, everyday choices that add up over time. And if that means eating a few extra peels along the way, well, I’m willing to take that risk.
