I canceled the farmshare yesterday.
I enjoyed the vegetable boxes I got in the summer. They had an interesting variety of produce, and sometimes contained more than I could eat. The winter boxes have been disappointing, containing a reliable supply of dirty potatoes and weird prepared foods (I mean -- a ziploc bag of sauerkraut? Really?), and there's less in the box even though they're charging me more.
Last week, Daniel and I were doing our weekly grocery shopping at the Market District Giant Eagle, and while we were buying our apples we noticed a display of turnips, a root vegetable that had been included in a recent farmshare box. "Hm," said Daniel, giving me a significant look. "99 cents a pound."
The turnips were lovely, fat and firm and gorgeously purple and white. The ones in the farmshare box had been whithered and fading, still edible but in their last hours of viabilty. A vision of those flaccid, dirt encrusted turnips taunted me. They and their similarly undesirable brethren (moldy onion, wrinkled beets, and rotten potatoes) had cost me $19.50 the previous week. I looked at Daniel in disbelief. "I'm getting raped."
"I didn't want to say."
"Why not? I kept asking you if you thought the farmshare box was worthwhile!"
He shrugged. "I wanted you to draw your own conclusions." I gaped at him. "It's your thing. I didn't want to tell you whether to keep doing it."
I glared and turned back to the bin of turnips. They fairly glowed there on their bed of plastic moss. "Well, I want to support local farms," I muttered.
Daniel spun the plastic bag of apples to close it. Turning toward the produce scale, he said, "These are local."
Thus it came to pass that the farmshare operation made me feel like a fool, whereupon I cancelled my subscription.