$230 in debt and armed with nothing but a few beets, a sprinkling of parsley, and a dream, your friend with a Market Shares subscription is making you a meal only a rabbit could love.
Wondering “what ever happened to pasta with sauce?” you sit in her apartment, with only the ghosts of dinners past and the growling in your stomach to remind you that things were once better than this. As your vision starts to blur from hunger, your friend bounds around her tiny kitchen, wielding rutabaga and muddy carrots like some sort of medieval farmer, excited to share the spoils of this week’s share.
Later, as you feast on pea shoots together, she urges you to sign up so that you, too, can scramble around trying to figure out how the fuck to incorporate purple top turnips into a meal a normal person would want to eat. Alas, reader, it cannot be done. So you sit, rueing the day that you complained about the Ratty french toast casserole, and craving a slice of that grey, spongy goodness. Deeeeeeelish.