I’ll be honest, I’m still waiting for that mystery basket of produce to appear on my apartment doorstep. You know the one -- the pile of produce that materializes from your neighbors, exhausted from harvesting zucchini and even more so from eating it. It’s akin to the folklore dropping of an orphan: “here, you take it, I can’t deal with it anymore.” I love that basket. I wait for that basket.
I’m beginning to get the sinking feeling that it isn’t coming, this year or in any of the ones following. I live in a Brooklyn apartment building where the concrete is particularly infertile, but it isn’t that. I have a theory that the orphan baskets of produce are going the way of dial-up internet because people are making this pesto. It inspires a waste-not philosophy, but also, unfortunately for me and my doorstep, it inspires greed. I have half a mind to make some myself.
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