The more observant of you will have noticed that I am a confirmed carnivore. (And just what is a confirmed carnivore, anyway? Does it involve Catholic clergy with Worcester Sauce?)
It's true, though. I used to be that person who would only eat a meal if most of its constituent parts used to have a mother. Vegetables were to be classified more as garnish - really there as decoration but not to be taken that seriously.
I must have been a trial for my poor mother. Mealtime after mealtime, I'd sit there, my bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, refusing to eat anything green. Ingredients would be pushed around the plate, tantrums would be thrown, sulks endured.
I was 18 at the time. (Buddum tish! Ithankyew.)
But I have had a conversion. Katie not only has the patience of a saint, but also access to Abel & Cole's website. As a result, for the last three weeks a man called Doug* in a little biodiesel van has chugged his way to our front door and deposited boxes of gorgeousness on our step. Bang on 6.00am every Monday, with metronomic efficiency.
I'll be honest, I was a little cynical at first. It all seemed a little, well, worthy. And very much right on. But once Katie unpacked the first box my interest was piqued. Irregular apples. Oranges with pockmarks. And bendy carrots. In other words, fruit and veg that hadn't been mucked around with by some faceless corporation. And as a result, they tasted, well, tasty.
I know this might sound a little odd. But I have taken to saying things like, "That apple tasted apple-y, " with an expression that is rapidly approaching awe. And as a result of their approach to stock control (if it's not in season you're not getting it), I have experienced more new things in the last fortnight than a stag party in Amsterdam.
Kohlrabi. Looks like a turnip, tastes a bit like a herby potato. Radicchio. Bitter as buggery, but works well with a dash of balsamic. Ok, a lot of balsamic. Alfafa. Bless you. Katie made some caulifower dahl and I found it almost edible. This week we had sunflower sprouts. I know. Someone call my mother.
But they also do non-veggie things too. This evening we had the Thai fishcakes. Which, for the benefit of Rebecca, is not a Big Lebowski reference on this occasion. And I've noticed that they supply beer and wine, too. There could be carnage ahead.
If they have a fault, they do sometimes fall into the Too Much Information category. In the weekly newsletter they told us about Andrew, their potato farmer. Apparently he'd been distracted from packing his 'Arran Victory' potatoes this week because he'd had to deliver his own baby girl.
I'm all for going back to nature. But I sincerely hope he washed his hands afterwards.
*(I don't actually know the driver's name. But in our house, forever more, he shall be called Doug. And Verily It Is Decreed.)