I suppose it’s strange to be talking about tomatoes in late October, right? But then again, it’s strange to still be seeing tomatoes in late October. And not, mind you, the ones usually airlifted to Virginia in December from exotic lands, but rather the locally-grown kind, laid out in neat rows on farmers’ market tables. It’s just been that kind of summer, bleeding into that kind of fall: where the warmth doesn’t want to stop hanging in the air at night, and every coat-appropriate day is matched with a sunny, borderline humid one.

And that’s okay by me. That means more blissful trips to Shenandoah National Park, drifting among the fiery leaves without the burden of gloves or a scarf. It means more Sunday nights in October dedicated to after-dinner strolls, some of which lead you to the swinging screen doors of hipster-run pie shops in newly-gentrified parts of your city. And, of course, it means fresh tomato sauce for a whole entire month longer than you’d reckoned to be blessed with.

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I have had the good fortune to not be afflicted by too many dire ailments in my life. Yes, there was one bout of walking pneumonia when I was eight that left me hacking up a lung for a while. And during college, I fell ill with the flu and couldn’t summon the energy to lift my head in the direction of the Season 3 DVDs of Grey’s Anatomy I was screening, despite being intensely curious about the fate of Derek and Meredith‘s relationship. So clearly the situation was a bit alarming. I do, however, contend that the illness wouldn’t have dragged out for as long as it did if I hadn’t run the Marine Corps Marathon three weeks later.

Ahem.

But there is one chronic condition I suffer from that has the power to bring me to my knees. It’s called Jalapeño Eye. That’s a technical term, and I’m pretty sure it has its own WebMD entry. It usually arises after a well-meaning attempt at adding heat to an otherwise non-threatening dish like chana punjabi. Without thinking twice, you slice open the tiny, bright pepper you procured at the market, scrape out its heat-packed seeds and ribs with your fingernail, and generally proceed to spread spice molecules all over your hands without a care in the world. You will then scrub your hands vigorously with dish soap and hot water, thinking you’ve gotten them really, virtuously clean.

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There’s a trap I fall into sometimes, and it’s called “life is so perfect for everybody else.” As in, nobody else’s hair frizzes into an ‘fro when August rolls around, or struggles to stay in shape, or gets obsessed with celebrity gossip in lieu of keeping up with their perusal of Nabokov short stories. Nobody at work sits at their desk cursing their job responsibilities, and nobody overdraws on their bank accounts or screws up their first attempt at home haircolor. Right? It’s so easy to romanticize, even when your good sense chides you for playing such a ridiculous mental game.

And then I discovered the food blogosphere, which is like being James Stewart in Rear Window. Except it’s a million little windows into the lives of others, and these people know they’re being watched. There’s an intimidating polish and structure to the whole thing. It’s not a complaint, really—I’ve found honest, sincere friends and incalculable inspiration here, after all—but it’s rare for someone to chat about a spectacular flop in the kitchen, or the mind-numbingly boring sandwich they eat everyday at noon.

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My fingernails and cuticles may be safe from worried biting, but I do have nervous habits like anyone else—and my listmaking compulsion is an especially stubborn one. Deadlines, accomplishments, ideas? Bullet-point them! Write them down! We may be talking about something ridiculously trivial or seriously important, looming or faraway, but if it crosses my mind, it usually gets transcribed on a Post-It. What can I say? I like to organize my thoughts.

Until recently, I’ve been engaging in some public list-making as I shared my weekly CSA recap with you kind souls. This summer brought my first encounter with a farmshare program, and the recap was a vehicle for all sorts of things: exchanging veggie-centric ideas, asking questions, complaining, and doing a little dance whenever an experimental recipe worked out. Most of all, I detailed my CSA adventures to convince myself that I could rise to the challenge. For someone who used to come home from the office too tired to toast bread, the prospect of extensive weeknight cooking was daunting.

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The corn-and-tomato inundation has begun, and every week, our CSA share gets heavier and heavier. Last Thursday—pick-up day!—the plastic handles of the bucket-like bag dug themselves deep into the creases of my bent fingers. And in order to make it from the drop-off cooler back to my car, I had to lean to one side, awkwardly swinging myself in a forward motion. So the real fun started at home, after the heavy lifting, as we stood in the kitchen and puzzled over the fate of our new friends.

With no grill to our name, we relied on Mexican flavors to imbue the ingredients with a summery taste. Not that they needed much garnish—food this fresh doesn’t need to be masked by spice or ever meet a flame to be rendered delicious. But hey, we’re partially in this CSA thing to stretch our creative muscles, and so here’s what we cooked up.

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For the past month and a half, it’s been all about the vegetables. So, unleashed at the farmers’ market last weekend, we lunged greedily at the berries and stone fruits with outstretched arms. Some people may have found all the lunging a little bit intense—awkward and socially out of place, perhaps—but we were okay with that, since our greediness was rewarded handsomely. Apricots, three pounds of sour cherries, a quart of sweet cherries, a ripe cantaloupe? Procured. And taking into consideration the quart of blackberries and the huge bag of peaches we picked in Purcellville immediately thereafter, the people may have been right in deeming us a tad overeager. But guess what? All of that fruit is either cooked up or residing in our bellies, save for two pounds of pitted sour cherries that lie chilling in the freezer, awaiting their sentencing (which will likely include significant pie time). And we still had room for the contents of our CSA share. Never fear, dear readers! Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

This week was all about food-blog inspiration, as we eschewed cookbooks and magazines in favor of some delicious things that Kristin, Andrea, Shannalee and David have all waxed poetic about. So I guess you could call this a shout-out to my homies, although I’m too much in awe of their talents to elevate myself to fellow-homie status. I am failing to hatch a more appropriate and deferential slang term, so maybe I’ll just quit while I’m ahead. Yeah, likely a good idea. And then I’ll make some more of their featured recipes, because they made my on-hand ingredients shine, fruit and vegetable alike.

Ahem. Stream of consciousness aside, here’s where all the veggies went.

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I have two competing sides of my personality: the antsy one that craves new adventures, and the homey one that wants nothing more than to live life as a series of comforting routines. It’s a yin-and-yang dynamic that shoots me off on a road trip one weekend, then renders me homebound the next. I imagine it’s not uncommon to find this sort of split personality, the kind that makes you use all your energy on something exciting but requires a battery recharge before your next attempt.

After a solid five weeks as a CSA subscriber, I’ve realized that getting my weekly produce share complements both sides of my personality. There’s a fair bit of comforting sameness as the weeks fold in and out of each other; every Tuesday, I read through the weekly e-mail from Farmer John, telling us what to expect in that week’s bag. On Thursday, I swing by my local dropoff point after work, thumb through the offerings, and enjoy a quiet night of veggie-washing, wine-sipping and recipe-procuring with Ted. And with so many raw ingredients to work with, I’m able to content myself with lots of calm puttering around the kitchen. At the same time: having your weekly vegetable allotment dictated to you? It’s a challenge, and we’re constantly hunting down ideas and recipes that will use up our entire share without requiring us to give up our social lives. Never before have I made this many new dishes in a week, or eschewed “dinners” of peanut butter and toast for so long, or learned so many new cooking techniques. Belonging to a CSA program has asked a lot of me, and it’s given a lot back. It calls me to expend mental and physical energy, and then it recharges me with the best food I’ve ever had.

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The countertops have been 409-ed, the floors vacuumed of Styrofoam peanut residue, and the dishes lifted from cardboard boxes into my refurbished cabinets. Ostensibly, the construction workers (or as I like to call them, “my sometimes roommates”) have left my apartment for good after two weeks of disruptive work and ridiculous shenanigans (one day, they made no repairs but did take the time to unplug my fridge). It’s at times like these—or, more realistically, after times like these, when you’ve had a chance to reclaim your 610 square feet—when it seems appropriate to substitute the occasional agonies of adulthood for the simple pleasures of childhood. In the middle of a June heatwave, that most certainly means ice cream, and lots of it.

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I thought I was done with living out of boxes. Far away from college now, I no longer have to switch dormitories every year or shuttle between Washington and Chicago as the summer waxes and wanes; I’ve got a lease, people, and the quiet stability that comes with one. Right?

Not this week. With contractors here daily to renovate everyone’s kitchens and bathrooms, and “all personal items” ordered out of those rooms (that’s a lot of personal items. Like, a lot), I’ve been stumbling bleary-eyed through my life. You know, trying valiantly to ensure that I don’t leave the coffee-maker napping on my counter after breakfast, or my dishes anywhere in, on, or near a dishwasher, drying rack, or cabinet. Somehow, though, I actually managed to eat all my CSA vegetables. Aren’t you proud of me? Admittedly, though, I’m too tired to remember how I achieved such a feat. A recap is in order, to jog my memory:

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Another week, another Popeye-approved amount of vegetable matter ingested. Not to pat ourselves on the back prematurely, but I think we’ve already gotten the hang of this CSA thing! Last week, Friday night rolled around, and we settled in to cook an arugula- and basil-infused pasta dinner instead of trolling the Web for takeout menus, as is our usual end-of-the-week routine. That means a) we’re saving money for our upcoming Mediterranean vacation; b) our antioxidant consumption has skyrocketed; and c) we’re learning so much about cooking. And having fun together while doing all of the above!

I’ve been a lifelong baker, but experimentation in cooking was never my strong suit. My dinners suffered, therefore, on account of this inexperience (and combined with my crippling post-work laziness and an unhealthy dependence on peanut butter). So please excuse my self-congratulatory words, because this newfound ability to cook real weeknight meals really does deserve a gold star! And a gold star, too, goes to Ted, who singlehandedly prepared the chicken stir-fry with snow peas that you’ll drool over below.

Without further ado, here’s how we used this week’s CSA box contents, with only a bit of the cabbage and red scallions leftover to use in tonight’s vegetable stir-fry.

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