The law of diminishing marginal returns reigns supreme every year around the time of zucchini season in my little nook of Italia. We all start out thrilled by the endless possibilities. We make zucchini and baby shrimp scialatielli pasta, parmigiana of eggplant, stuffed eggplant, marinated eggplant. Then around mid-July, we want nothing more to do with the offensive little squash.
The zucchini started arriving in my garden about a week ago, which means that the next few weeks will likely feature a rush to pickle, preserve and EAT as many zucchini as I can possibly stomach before they all start turning into massive gourds unfit to feed even the family pig. I usually start off the season with a rush of excitement, and this year is no different. The units of pleasure I derive from picking zucchini from my very own garden will continue to grow for approximately the next 17 days, and thusly I rather jauntily scurry from my garden to my kitchen to my table, a veritable if not slightly sanctimonious Alice Waters.