Don't open my refrigerator, okay? It's a jungle in there.
My friend and I are splitting a CSA share this summer. We signed up in February and I thought for the rest of the winter about all the beautiful organic vegetables that would be coming my way when the weather turned warm. Chard! Kale! Pattypan squash! Unwaxed cucumbers! I could practically taste the tomatoes.
I wasn't counting on all the salad stuff, though.
See, I am not a huge fan of green salads. I ought to be, I think. A more elegant version of me, a Jamie who would have sleek hair and pedicured feet, would be waxing rhapsodic about all this organic mesclun. The existing me, though -- let's just say rhapsodic is not the word that springs to mind.
I ate it all the first week. I ate most of it the second week. But now I have an alarming backlog of lettuce in the crisper drawer. I'm a little reluctant to open it, for fear of an Audrey-II-esque thing arising from its frigid depths and howling, "Feed me, Seymour!"
Next week my friend is going to be on vacation and I will have twice as much lettuce. I have a mental image of myself being buried in a mountain of mesclun. The farmer is shoveling it on top of my vanishing head as I try to say, "Stop!" It comes out as "pflvvvp," though, because my mouth is full of mesclun. (See, the Gladly family is a font of funky fricatives.)
I am typing this wondering if it is too silly to post. I should just call up my neighbor who likes mesclun, the one who no longer participates in this CSA because she could not keep up with the profusion of produce. (She has sleek hair and pedicured toes, incidentally. Do those things usually go together?) I should take my frugal Scottish self firmly in hand and toss the lettuce when it gets slimy. (Instead I'm holding out, as if I'm magically going to like salads better when they are made of rotting leaves. Yum!)
First, though, I have to summon the courage to open that crisper drawer. If you don't hear from me after this, tell 'em it's Audrey's fault.
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