THE JOURNEY TO a far country is come and gone, and I’m back to a quiet office, with the little bidgets and squeaks of activity at our two desks almost muffled by the deep freeze in the hall that guards the best of the garden and an imaginative collection of various foodstuffs. The harvest is in, in which I had so little part while away, but am enjoying so much now. Of particular pleasure is the once a year overabundance of basil pesto, which is what puts the little donut-shaped tortellini (called by some Venus’s belly button) up into the category where it deserves the latter name. And of course, there’s still the heap on the kitchen counter of odd sort-of-pumpkin-like squash that came curling up out of the compost in the spring and strewed its star-crossed fruits all the way from the arbor to the corn patch. We think they’re a cross between butternuts and buttercups, which last year grew together on the same fence. They’re frankly not big enough to have dallied with the behemoth Cushaws across the way. So now we’re stuck with calling them ButterButters, or Nutcups. Any thoughts?