I sent off the final payment for our 2009 CSA the other day (late, because I am full of forgetfulness and fail). Overall, the farm share–our first and, I’m almost certain, not our last–was a really delightful experiment. I loved getting my giant green shopping bag home every week, unloading everything onto the kitchen table and imagining all the dinners I might make with the haul. I loved the tiny, sweet strawberries and the floppy bunches of dill and the chance to make kohlrabi fries. I loved our handsome farmer and the sweet  girl who checked my name off the list at pickup time. And I especially loved the bread share. Even if my ass did not.

Still, especially as we moved into the colder months and I wound up with twenty pounds of squash and kale and onions every week, it occurred to me more than once since June that a CSA–even a half share–isn’t particularly compatible with the way Tom and I live now. It was too much food, first of all. Even if we stayed home and cooked every night–which we basically never do–I’d still wind up with veg left over at the end of the week, a green bunch of something liquefying in my fridge. I gave away a lot of zucchini and lettuce and cabbage, and even though it made me popular at work and happy to share what we had, the CSA wasn’t exactly a cheap proposition–it was frustrating to feel so perpetually wasteful.

The cost was an issue in other ways, too. Our pickups tended to be really veg-heavy, and while that was awesome in theory, it also meant that I spent all of July and August walking past the farmer’s market fighting peach and plum envy because I had a crisper full of really expensive chard at home. And that’s when I was there to pick it up: this past summer, my schedule was so wonky that making sure somebody was there on Tuesdays between 3 and 6 to haul everything home became a project unto itself. Tom was more or less willing to go until the day he forgot the reusable bags and, he grumbled, “the woman yelled at me for polluting the environment!”

None of this is to say that I’d never do a CSA again. Quite the opposite, actually–I love the whole idea of being a part of an enterprise like this, and I’d absolutely recommend it to anybody who asked. But I think I’ll probably wait a few years before I do another round myself–’til we’re more settled, have more money–and can bear to look at another butternut squash.

It snowed again last night, and the grey, frosty weather on top of last week’s restaurant-hopping had me all grabby for something a little bit special. I’d never attempted a slow-cooker pot roast before, though, and I was happy to take some help from the good people at William Sonoma (also purchased: sanding sugar, some tikka masala simmering sauce, and a ginormous ladle. After all, there was a gift card to be spent).

Five hours later, we wound up with a perfectly done, almost buttery roast, which (along with some smashed red potatoes and a quick Caesar salad) was a super-satisfying, day-off, January-type dinner.  Usually I sort of chafe at the idea of starting dinner from a jar, but this worked so well I might have to reconsider.  Plus, come on. That is a pretty jar.

Weekends with friends are wonderful–especially when they involve laid-back ladies, hilarious gentlemen, short-rib grilled cheese sandwiches, long walks through the Back Bay, dive bars with pinup-girl wallpaper, the first two episodes of Band of Brothers, and frequent, frequent renditions of this song (I’m sorry. I’m just not over it yet). Mike and Gianna: you are delightful. Come back asap.

How was everybody’s weekend? And what are you doing with your bonus day off?

Dear Martha Coakley:

Way to screw the pooch.

No love,

Katie

PS: can everybody cross their fingers for this family? What a hideous, hideous thing.

You know how sometimes you forget you love a song for years and years and then you hear it somewhere random and all of a sudden you are like HEY THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG, and you want to tell everyone you know about it, except all the people you really want to tell it to are far away?

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xdt58T366xw]

Anyway. I love this effing song, and they played it at the bar on Saturday night when I went to visit Tom at work on my way home from Davis Square (partly because I think he’s nifty and partly because the lock on our front door has been freezing, and I didn’t want to be stuck outside the apartment by myself at 1:30 in the morning. One thing about Tom is he can always negotiate tricky locks).

Obsessions for the month of January: Idol auditions. Carla Bruni. That raspberry-flavored fiber stuff you put in your water bottle. My smart new kelly green planner. Coffee from the corner store. Northampton with the toy store girls. Short, naked fingernails. Canada. Dinner dates. Facebook. Watching the days get ever-so-incrementally longer.

What up, Monday.

Lose five. Finish the Pulitzers. Write it all, all the time. Drink more water. Get two published. Figure out the church thing. Recommit to this space. Mexico in the spring, New Orleans in the summer, London in the fall. S t r e t c h. Get this business off the ground (and stop being so damn cryptic about it here). Work on the family stuff. Save some dollars. Wear some heels. Eat some vegetables. Learn everything. Say yes.

Now you go.