Gosh. A little teensy bit of rain, a few extra hours at work, and suddenly it’s late July. How did that happen?
Here’s this week’s half-share. Yes, this is a half-share. Thank goodness we didn’t opt for the full Monty.
Leftish to rightish:
Beets, Napa cabbage, lettuce with a lovely rosy center, cauliflower, garlic, basil, something like broccoflower?, yellow squash, potatoes, red chard, watercress, a zucchini, and two ears of corn.
We’ve had this wet, wet season, as everyone in New England knows. So we’ve had tons of green leafy things to enjoy. We’ve eaten so many salads, with many more in our future. We’ve tossed chicory (curly endive) with cherry vinegar and a little olive oil. We’ve sauteed chard in garlic and oil, chopped that up, and baked it with eggs in a frittata.
I’ve wrapped beets in foil, baked them 45 minutes in a hot oven, then left them to cool and eat another day, sliced and sprinkled with olive oil and freshly ground pepper. I’ve added fresh dill to a chicken and cucumber salad with yogurt dressing.
I’ve reserved beet greens and mixed them with a few leaves of chard or kale – none of them much of a portion in and of themselves, but together a bitter high-vitamin stew. I’ve scrubbed little red potatoes, boiled them, then mashed them with a splash of buttermilk. I’ve peeled and chopped fresh garlic to start a dish, left the last few cloves on the kitchen table, then puzzled to find them under the table in the next room, where a zealous and daring cat has soccer-footed them across the floor.
Not everything coming my way has met with maximal use. I’ve waved the one limp rib rhubarb like an underperforming magician’s wand, then chopped it regretfully into the compost pile. I’ve lost one handful of basil to my own forgetfulness. So it goes.
Everything though – so delicious, fresh, nutritious. A pleasure to eat. And it’s still like Christmas to receive and open my half-bushel box (especially when there’s an extra bundle of Japanese greens on top, that additional abundance that simply wouldn’t fit).
More anon.





