The vegetables you had to eat as a kid were pretty benign. Spinach, broccoli, brussel sprouts - most of these we grew to appreciate as adults, and found a way to prepare them that waterboards the unpleasant flavors. I saute veggies in bacon fat with the blasphemous zeal of Richard Dawkins, for example. But other veggies remain a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a vest, like turnips and rutabega.
It's precisely these execrable vegetables that so perplex worshipers of the CSA box, that urban institution that gives the community (C), in return for their pre-paid financial support (S), fresh agriculture (A) from the local farm. Spinachurally, you can't choose what the local farm grows, and if you don't like what you get, tough squash. The CSA-listers suffer Catholic-level guilt over these vegecrables rotting in their fridges, so like Saudis trying to suckle a sugar mama, they resort to zany measures, such as substituting turnips for macaroni in mac & cheese.
Where the bell pepper do these vegecrats think we live, Chavezuela? Are we still living with our parents (wait, you probably are), forced to gulp down veggies more stomach-turning than Helen Thomas? This is Obamerica, dammit, and you can replace enjoyable food with any vegetable you want, provided you buy it at Michelle's marked-up farmers market.
By paying a premium for the privilege of being told what to eat, you conformity-sustaining abdicators are removing any market incentive for farms to grow things you actually want. There's no reason John Q. Hoe has to plant such despicable crops - it's not like farmers are getting $56 billion in radish subsidies to make fuel that is frenemies with the environment. They grow this crambe because it's cheaper for them, and you, the nouveau leeks, won't argue when they insist turnips can be quite good, rather than the result of Man's Fall.
Aware of growing distaste for command-style authoritarianism, some CSAs are now offering "market-style" options that give members "some degree of personal choice" in what they get. You can tell kale to go to hale, presumably. But the farmers "encourage" members to take a "prescribed" amount of what they want. To quote a wise father from the '70s, how about you take my foot up your ass? The Band of Brothers didn't die so you could resurrect the Soviet breadline in Marin County.
You might as well fork over your paycheck to farmers not enslaved to the Iowa congressional delegation - in other words, foreigners - who actually appreciate the open market, grow what sells, and give the local boutique farm some old-fashioned competition. If you still want to feel superior to your neighbors, just wait 5 years to get a spot at your local community garden.