I used to live in an apartment by myself with a super tiny kitchen.

The book that made me yearn for fire escapes | www.harpercollins.com

The apartment was in one of those old buildings you see all over Ghent: one with fire escapes (which fulfilled a fire escape fantasy I have had since age twelve when I first read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn); the apartment was covered with layer upon layer of beige paint that chipped and peeled constantly. The kitchen, believe it or not, was the selling point. When I first looked at the apartment, I loved the sweet window over the kitchen sink, the adorable breakfast nook turned booth with storage in the seats and a table that lifted into the wall like a Murphy bed, and the exposed shelving over the refrigerator. My friend Mary, who looked at the apartment with me, called it “charming.” And it was.

By the time I moved, I was so ready to leave that kitchen. The oven was too small for a jelly roll pan (preventing me from making pine bark in the fall), the kitchen door only opened halfway before hitting the breakfast nook. There was no dishwasher, no counter space, and minimal cabinets. I had only ever lived in places with dishwashers and microwaves before, and all my previous kitchens had room for at least one person to stand in the kitchen and cook with me, or at least chat with me while I cooked. What used to be charming, I eventually thought of as ordinary. Mundane. At times annoying. The charm had worn off.

I find myself at that crossroads constantly in my life. I always say that I suffer from chronic idealism; I believe, wholeheartedly, that something is going to be completely awesome and amazing and perfect and flawless. I throw myself into things with gleeful enthusiasm, never pausing to think of whether I’m headed towards burn-out or disappointment. When I get excited about something, I turn the full light of my sun upon it so it’ll grow and grow and grow until it burns.

I’m waxing poetic tonight about the fleeting nature of joy and idealism because this week I got May peas from the Five Points Farm Market, and because I have spent the last week alone.

When I lived in that apartment with the tiny kitchen, I lived alone after spending a year with two fantastic roommates (one of whom now lives with me again), and then a summer in Cape Cod with four (also fantastic) roommates, one of whom I actually shared a bedroom with (a first for me). I had spent that summer in Provincetown running around, working, dancing, and generally living it up, always, always, with people.

By the time I got home to Virginia, I was peopled out. I wanted solitude, to be alone and write and think and just be quiet. And I was. And it was great, for about a week.

In the same way that my tiny kitchen’s charm lost its power for me, so did being alone. I’ve always wished I could be one of those people who just loves being solitary; it would make it so much easier to write if I could be happy being alone for long stretches of time. If quiet didn’t irk me so. If I didn’t need people.

Quel romantique | openlibrary.org

I read in a fantastically romantic Canadian novel, called Raymond and Hannah, that one of the characters (Raymond, actually) would go to a diner and just sit all day with a cup of coffee; something to the effect that he paid less than a dollar for the ability to sit in a room with other hearts beating around him. I often forget how much I need that–other hearts around me–until I am alone.

This time, it was great for two days. I relished the unfamiliarity of quiet, the empty rooms, the confidence that comes from knowing I could come home in a bitchy mood and not have to modify that for anyone. But then the third day came, and in each subsequent day the loneliness crept in, and the quiet became deafening, and cooking for one became a sad, strange activity that I longed to change.

What does this have to do with May peas? Look at the name. May peas. True, they’re more a springtime vegetable than one specifically limited to May, but the point is that they grow best before the harsh sunshine of summer takes hold and leaves us with heartier field peas. They’re here briefly. They should be appreciated.

And they were. When I picked up my bag of peas at Five Points, I was psyched. A whole bag of May peas. Mine, all mine. I used some in a freakishly ill-fated chicken pot pie recipe with my friend Mary. Most of the remaining peas I used in this week’s CSAcation recipe from Gourmet magazine. And at first, that recipe was amazing. I thought, what genius, peas and asparagus. Since I didn’t have shallots, I used the spring onions we got from Five Points, and they were an excellent, lightly flavorful substitution. Perfectly cooked. Perfectly seasoned. Perfect. I’m alone, I’m cooking for one. I rock.

Asparagus, Peas, and Basil

Tonight, I had my third serving of peas and asparagus leftovers. The charm has worn off, and the thing is, I know there’s at least one serving of peas left in my refrigerator. And I should use them. And they’ll probably be delicious. But I shined the full light of my sun upon those May peas. I rejoiced in an empty apartment and a frying pan full of fresh green vegetables, and I want something different now. I want the comfort of hearts beating around me. I want my roommates back home to use up the last of the sugar, of the soy milk.

Perhaps I sound pitiful–it’s entirely likely–but what I find most interesting about my CSAcation is the way that I have to reconsider food. I could buy peas in a can, yes. I could buy them frozen in a creamy butter sauce that would melt after three minutes in the microwave. I can get them year round. But they wouldn’t be May peas from a farm in my region. They’d just be peas. The CSAcation has taught me about impermanence. If you want to preserve something, you have to actually do the work of preserving it. Otherwise, you’re confined to the seasons. And May peas are not something I can get in December. The same way that time alone isn’t something I get very often. But maybe that’s the way of it. Maybe our whole lives we’re struggling against some quest for permanence and variation, solitude and companionship. Maybe when the charm wears off of our tiny kitchen it’s time to shake it up, lest we take for granted the chipping paint, the too-small oven. Lest we overlook the value of May peas and hearts beating around us.

The deadline to sign up for the Summer CSA through Five Points Farm Market is June 19th. Don’t delay; sign up now.