I never should have signed up. I knew I couldn’t handle it.

And now I’m stuck with the consequences.

The truth is that I’m just not equipped to manage a weekly CSA, or farm share. It is stressing me the hell out.

Now, I love the idea of the whole thing. A nice little box of fresh, locally grown produce for my family to enjoy. I love going to the farm itself. I pick up my box and they hand me my harvest, along with these very cute papers about storage and multiple recipe suggestions. It all looks amazing.

And, for those six minutes, I love it.

Pretty much, from that point on, the farm share is a giant albatross that goes downhill fast.

Upon my first pick-up, I was slightly surprised by the size of my share, even though I ordered the smallest portion. I was handed a box bursting with leafy greens. How fresh! Look at all of that cabbage and lettuce and spinach and what the hell is that? And where am I going to store all  of it if I don’t start gnawing on it or juicing it immediately?

No matter, I thought. I’ll refer to my recipe insert and just whip up, well, God knows what.

My husband laughed. He made it clear from day one that the CSA would be “my thing” and not his. {Subtitle: “DO NOT interfere with my Entenmann’s consumption. You cannot make me a healthy eater. And I will remain slim forever, despite my caloric intake.”}

He would never say that last sentence. But its evil truth remains an unfair biological mystery that I will always resent.

My first mistake was signing up for the Friday pick-up. I should have known when Tuesdays filled up quickly that there was a reason for this. I don’t know about you, but let me disclose that the level of cooking I like to do on the weekends rhymes with hero. Trucking hero, to be more mathematically precise. But now, this won’t do. Because I’ve got a box of fresh produce that’s going to wither and die in front of my eyes by Friday night if I don’t wash, properly store and plan out the next 15-18 meals for its imminent use.

Right. Nowwwww.

OK, I can do this. After all, it’s summer! I have so few obligations. And a Vitamix at the ready. I can start with green smoothies!

I loved green smoothies before I became a hostage to my farm share, so I figured I could make a decent dent in the produce. But, for the love of all that is holy, there is a limit, at least for me, as to how much of my daily intake can happen through a straw.***

***Insert exception clause for frozen alcoholic beverages.

So, four green smoothies in a 12-hour period later, I was still staring at a heaping supply of spinach, cabbage, lettuce and swiss chard. I decided it was time to move on. I could make wholesome baby food!

That worked for a short while too. But leafy greens and babies only mix well to a certain extent. Beyond that point, you need to call FEMA to remove your diaper bin.

I persevered nonetheless. If the locavores with the large orders could power through this every week, I could use up my small share.

But the produce haunted me.

Here’s the thing. While I do eat a good amount of fruit and vegetables, I’m more of a purchase in small quantities gal and less of a meal planner/buy in bulk type. And herein lies the problem. It’s not that I don’t like the food. It’s not that I don’t appreciate its locally grown freshness. I just lack the foresight to be able to get my money’s worth and use all of it in a week.

It’s not them, it’s me. {Although they should really issue a personality compatibility test before you agree to a farm share. I would have failed somewhere around the “What do you plan to make for lunch four days from now” question.}

Now, I feel pangs of guilt for eating or preparing any food that is not drawn from the box. Like I’m cheating on it with carbohydrates and preservatives. Fuckkkkkk.

My inner monologue is laser-focused on the box:

• Should I put fresh sage on my eggs for breakfast?
• Will my kids notice if I sneak pureed kohlrabi into their apple juice?
• Can my Irish husband tell those are turnips and not potatoes? {Spoiler alert: HELL, YES, AND ARE YOU KIDDING ME?}
• Is it awful to push cucumber water on the kids over here for a playdate?
• Do you think that a head of cabbage is an acceptable new neighbor gift?
• OMG WHAT IN THE FRESH HELL DOES ONE DO WITH ALL OF THIS BOK CHOY?
• Screw it, I just want a damn turkey sandwich. Oh, wait. I should probably puree the snow peas into a pesto spread. But I’m hungry now. I don’t want pesto. I want mayo. Should I infuse the mayo with parsley? I could slice up the fresh tomato, of course, but then that would be less for the ketchup substitute I had planned for the leftover turnipotatoes.

It can’t just be me. I know it’s not.

Because I hear people in Starbucks, at the town pool, in Trader Joe’s, casually trading tips about how to finish the cabbage or the sage. And by “casually,” I mean borderline distressed.

“Wait, what? Tell me again about what you did for your third radish meal? You paired it with the bok choy?”

I see the visceral reaction of reformed farm share patrons when I mention things like the bok choy that seems to have multiplied overnight in my fridge: “OHHHH, not the fucking bok choy. We know! It’s huge and just no, no, no with the bok choy. Enough already. I mean, how much can you take?”

They are exasperated by the memory and clearly pleased with their decision to become defectors.

And where are the berries? It’s June, damn it. I know they are growing. I will welcome something in that box that can be washed and then just eaten, as is, by every member of my family, without planning ahead. No pies and tarts and cakes and muffins. No water flavor infusions. No jams. The fruit will be the shining moment of my farm share experience.

I hear it’s coming. Soon. In the meantime, I have some kale, arugula and escarole to deal with.

And if you want to come over for dinner in the remaining 22 weeks of my farm share, bring your straw.