We joined a CSA this year, and last week we started picking up.
I like the walk. The distribution is in a part of our neighborhood I never really go to–in my 2.5 years of living here, I’ve carved out my own small town, and never venture outside it much. I don’t know if it’s the Midwesterner in me or if I’m just really unadventurous (I guess those could be related), but I have my beaten path, and the CSA site is definitely off of it. There are new-to-me restaurants on Washington, kids being walked home from school by their parents, and new houses to imagine living in. It’s pleasant.
And walking when I’m not preoccupied about directions or necessarily getting somewhere on time lends itself to good thinking. The type of thinking where my mind wanders from one topic to the next, making unexpected connections (some brilliant, some dead ends). I wrote very lovely sentences for this blog post on the walk, then promptly forgot them when I sat down, which is of course the trouble. I’m not ready to start dictating to my iphone, but someday. Someday.
Once my tote is loaded up with veggies, the return trip is a bit different. I like to think through the washing and drying of the produce, of how I’m going to store everything and what we might want to make first. About two blocks from the apartment, when my shoulder is falling off, I begin to curse the bok choy. It is heavy and a very unnecessary vegetable.
At home I begin my veggie ritual. I lay out fresh kitchen towels and start washing everything. As I’ve gotten older –I’ll be 27 tomorrow– I’ve started to enjoy these mundane tasks a bit. Maybe it’s not quite a pleasure, but there’s satisfaction in prepping all of our produce for the week. I like to putter at it, listening to Wait Wait or very regrettable music, and alternate between de-stemming kale and packing away lettuce.
By now it’s well after six and totally appropriate to open wine. And so I do.
