A Survival Guide for CSA Season
At this point in April, summer produce is all in our imagination. The tangy sweet flavor of fresh picked tomatoes feels so far from what we’ve experienced all winter, it seems impossible that it really exists. The basil is a seed packet on a shelf. Corn is a rumor. Around here, most of us are in the annual phase of anticipation, putting carefully tended seedlings in the ground, refreshing the CSA signup page to see how many shares are left. (Answer: too many).
Summer is, at the moment, a glimmer of an idea. A distant and compelling vision of CSA boxes overflowing with produce and flowers being delivered to happy, engaged customers who care where their food comes from.
Every spring my friends tell me they’re considering signing up for our CSA, or have just signed their first CSA agreement with another farm, and the question they ask me is always some version of the same one: how am I going to eat all that food? So here, while the fields are still mostly bare, is an honest accounting, along with some advice for when the boxes start to land.
The best thing about a CSA, and the reason anyone sticks with it, is the moment you open the box. The week’s news is written in vegetables: the first real tomatoes, finally; a bunch of basil still warm from the field; a head of crispy lettuce; garlic that smells like garlic; a paper-wrapped bouquet of zinnias and sunflowers for the table. It is the best thing you’ll buy all week, and not just because the food tastes better than anything the grocery store can offer — though it does. It’s the best thing because of what it is: a standing appointment with the actual season, handed to you by people you can see.
The rest of the American food system is organized, more or less, to protect you from noticing what time of year it is. Strawberries from Mexico in March for instance. The CSA is organized to make you notice the season. To make you a part of the season, in fact. You get what the field is giving. In June that means strawberries and peas and lettuce; in August it means tomatoes and corn and basil; in October it means squash and the last brave things the frost hasn’t taken. You cook to the moment, not to a recipe you had in mind. A pound of garlic scapes shows up and you can turn them, by necessity, into an excellent pesto. The CSA is, among other things, a low-stakes cooking education delivered one box at a time.
But by the second week of July, another truth about the CSA begins to assert itself, and anyone who has ever belonged to one knows what I mean. The box can be overwhelming.
The first piece of advice I can offer, which took me years to learn, is: unpack the share immediately. Not after dinner. Not tomorrow. The moment the box comes home. Open everything. Wash greens in a sink of cold water, spin them dry, and roll them loosely in a clean dish towel inside a plastic bag — they’ll keep for a week and a half this way, sometimes two. Cut the greens off your beets, turnips, and radishes the minute they come home. Save the greens. Beet greens sautéed with garlic and a splash of vinegar are one of the great underrated suppers. Turnip greens ditto. Radish greens make a surprisingly good pesto.
A few quick storage rules that will change your July. Tomatoes never go in the fridge. Cucumbers do better at room temperature than most people think. Soft herbs — basil, cilantro, parsley — live longest with their stems in a glass of water on the counter, like a tiny bouquet; hard herbs like thyme and rosemary keep in a damp paper towel in the fridge. Don’t wash berries until the moment you use them. Summer squash, peppers, and eggplants are happy in the crisper. Corn loses its sweetness by the hour after picking; eat it the day it arrives if you can.
Once the triage is done, the other half of the CSA survival strategy is learning to cook with what the box gives you. Here are my 4 go to strategies:
Roasted vegetables. Cut whatever you have into similar-sized pieces, toss with olive oil and salt, roast at 425°F until the edges catch. Keep a container of these in the fridge; they go into grain bowls, eggs, pasta, sandwiches, salads, all week.
Summer soup: sauté onion and garlic in olive oil, add any vegetable you have (chopped), cover with broth, simmer until tender, blend. A zucchini soup, a tomato soup, a carrot soup — they’re all the same soup with a different starring vegetable. A swirl of cream or yogurt at the end, a handful of herbs, done.
Quick pickle. Bring equal parts vinegar and water to a simmer with a spoonful of sugar, a spoonful of salt, and whatever spices you like. Pour it over sliced cucumbers, radishes, green beans, onions, or carrots in a jar. Refrigerator-ready in an hour, excellent for a month.
Pesto, which does not need to be basil. Any leafy green, blended with nuts, garlic, cheese, and enough oil to loosen it, becomes pesto. Arugula pesto. Carrot-top pesto. Kale pesto. Freeze it in an ice-cube tray; in January you will be pathetically grateful.
And the flowers. Recut the stems at a sharp angle, strip the leaves below the waterline, change the water every other day. Keep them out of direct sun and away from the fruit bowl — ripening fruit releases ethylene, which wilts cut flowers fast. Some varieties dry beautifully hung upside down in a dark closet for two weeks: strawflower, statice, yarrow, globe amaranth. You’ll be glad of them in December.
A CSA’s gift, in the end, is the gentle obligation to pay attention. The box arrives, and you are asked to notice what is growing now — to cook what’s ripe, to store what isn’t, to pass the extra to a friend. The CSA rearranges the kitchen and the entire experience of home around the season, which is, I think, what it is supposed to do, and how we are supposed to live. Just a little closer to nature. A bit more connected to the season.
We’re planting this week, running against time to get our seedlings in the ground. The summer CSA is full of promise. Get ready to celebrate the season.
