A nightly production with produce

"Waiter, there's a scape in my pasta!"
(Salad also contains farm-share veggies)

I was upstairs in the bathroom, probably checking for new ear hairs, when I heard Belle yell from downstairs, "What is this?"

I immediately did what any good husband would do: I tried to figure out, based on the inflection in Belle's voice, what I was in for. A woman almost always knows what "this" is: the question is a gateway to a larger discussion inevitably leading to me apologizing.

There was no sense of urgency or fright in Belle's voice, so I knew there was no bug for me to kill. (Belle does not like bugs.) And I didn't detect any annoyance, either, so I was pretty sure I did not leave a mess in the kitchen or newspapers strewn about the living room.

Instead, I detected a hint of confusion in her tone, a hunch confirmed when she appeared holding large, green vegetable stalks that jutted in all different directions, like Medusa's hair with a bad dye job.

It turns out she was holding scapes, the latest special delivery from our farm share. Every Friday afternoon through October, we pick up fresh produce from a nearby farm. And every Friday night, we wonder how in the world we are going to eat all of this fresh produce in one week.

That I'm even part of a farm share surprises me. Three-and-a-half years ago, I would never have guessed I would be spending time wondering what to do with kohlrabi. In fact, I'm still not sure what kohlrabi is and I have them (it?) sitting in the fridge.

Enter Belle.

The woman has never met a vegetable she wouldn't bite into. To watch her select items in the produce section is to watch a judge crown a champion at the Westminster Kennel Club. I call her "The Watermelon Whisperer" for the way she can pick out a succulent one each time.

To say Belle has expanded my palette would be an understatement. Since we've been together, I've discovered the joy of kale chips and learned "arugula" is not a four-letter word. The only bad thing about this farm share to her has been the realization that, since the produce comes right from the ground, there might be bugs in our vegetables that need to be washed away. (Again, Belle really does not like bugs.)

Once we get our vegetables, Belle figures out a menu for the week. Since the majority of our items seem to be Greens That Look Like Lettuce But Probably Have Another Name I Don't Remember So I Just Call Them "Lettuce," we make lots of salads. Whenever we finish a new dish, Belle asks for my assessment. There have been times when I will rave about a meal and rare times when I say I did not like what we had. But, generally, the conversation goes like this:

Belle: What did you think?

Me: It was good.

Belle: Well, would you make it again?

Me [with a little more enthusiasm]: It was good.

Belle: So you're saying you wouldn't want to make it again.

Me [slightly confused]: No, I said it was good. We could make it again. I liked it.

Belle: It was good but I think it was a little [salty/sweet/sour/dry].

Me: Well, I think it was perfect, just the way it is. Like you.

Belle [rolls her eyes]:

And then that recipe is never used again.

It's probably for the better, though, because it gives Belle a chance to find new recipes to use for our produce. It's like my grandmother always said: When life gives you scapes, cut them into pieces and put them in a food processor to make a pesto.

Just check for bugs first.