We finally joined a CSA this week. These days I'm not so good at things like responding to emails, opening mail, and paying bills, and even though I'm enthusiastic about this CSA, joining involved all three. Actually, no, it didn't involve opening mail, just sending mail, but that's the flip side of the same coin. I got a gentle reminder email, though, and I whipped into action: confirmed, chose a pick-up location, sent the check, done.
Anyway, this is the perfect CSA to join: it's a friend's brother who used to be a chef and is farming their grandmother's land with his girlfriend the dancer, about an hour south of East Coast Big City. So you've got local, you've got community, you've got art vibes, you've even got the possibility of vegetables for the restaurant. All good. (In Red State Capital City Suburb, we were deeply entwined with our CSA, but everyone is entwined with everything in Red State Capital City Suburb; still, it's nice to feel a real connection that I didn't think we'd get, here in the big city.)
The only thing that's a little sad--because I wouldn't be me if I didn't look at the dark side--is that joining the CSA means less excuse to go the farmer's market. But maybe we'll just go anyway.
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