Vegetabular

I hate cooking.  It’s the whole organizational aspect of it–you have to have the green pepper chopped up and ready to go once the garlic has softened, you have to stir-fry it for five minutes (God help you if you skip out to pee and come back a minute late), and when you’re done you have to clean up the mess.  Pass.  For our first few months together my roommate thought I was a druggie because I hardly ate anything–until she discovered I think cooking takes too much work.

So why did I think it would be a good idea to subscribe to an organic farm?

Maybe because I’d only be getting one-sixth of the bounty.  I’m splitting half a summer-long subscription with my roommate and her boyfriend.  Maybe because I ought to eat more vegetables.  That’s why I was excited that we’d be getting everything from arugula to zucchini.  But also, in some abstract way, I think cooking is a good, nurturing, responsible activity, and that I should do more of it.

That didn’t happen.  There’s something about being faced every week with that boombox-size box of grubby wholesomeness that turns me off of food entirely.  It doesn’t matter if it comes filled with beets (which I don’t like) or tomatoes (which I love); I just don’t want to deal with it.  I…kind of let the veggies sit in the fridge until they’re rotten enough to pitch.  I feel guilty about this, but my roommate, who does like to cook, is even having a hard time getting rid of her share.  She started throwing dinner parties just so she can fob off our unwanted food on someone else.

Plus today I tried an ear of corn and it tasted like a baked potato.  I’m never doing this again.

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