It started with just one.
A single courgette, in a crumpled Lidl bag, left quietly on the doorstep like it had done something wrong. No note. No knock. Just there. Sitting in the morning sun like a passive-aggressive vegetable.
Bryan stepped over it like it might bite him. I carried it in, washed it, and stuck it in the fridge, figuring someone had mistaken us for people who know what to do with garden produce.
Then two more showed up. Paco from next door handed them over with a sheepish look and a shrug that said you know how it is. And yes — I was beginning to know how it was.
The day after, another one arrived, this time from a woman I only half-recognised from the bakery. She didn’t explain. Just pressed the courgette into my hands with the solemnity of a religious ceremony, then wandered off.
Later that week, the retired builder from three houses down rang the bell and gave us a courgette so big it needed both arms. “Natural, sin químicos,” he said, like we were about to enter it in a competition.
Apparently this is normal
When I asked Lola about it, she laughed and said it happens every summer. People plant too many. They can’t throw them away — not after watering them through May and coddling them through heatwaves. So they pass them on.
It’s not optional. You take them, you smile, and you find a use — or at least pretend you did.
I tried.
Tortilla de calabacín, grilled slices, ribboned into fake pasta, even muffins. Some of it worked. Some of it got quietly scraped into the bin while Bryan wasn’t looking. One night I made a cold courgette soup that looked better than it tasted, but only just.
The fridge started to smell like damp earth. I opened the vegetable drawer and three more rolled out, which I have no memory of putting there.
Leo drew a tally on the kitchen whiteboard. 17 courgettes received. 6 used. 1 suspicious.
One ended up in my handbag, which I only discovered at the checkout in Mercadona. The cashier returned it to me like a lost wallet.
But I think I get it now
This is what people do here. This is neighbourliness, disguised as surplus. It’s generosity with no strings — but also a test. A quiet check to see if you’ll play along. Take the courgette, smile, try not to look overwhelmed.
It’s not about vegetables. It’s about community. Or at least proving you won’t ruin it.
I still don’t know who left the bag with five last week. No note, of course. Just courgettes and a faint smell of soil and sun.
We used one in an omelette. The rest are still in the fruit bowl, pretending to belong.
Next year, we’ll plant something. Doesn’t matter what. Peppers, maybe. Or mint. Or even more courgettes, just for revenge.
When it’s time, I’ll leave them on a neighbour’s doorstep without a word.
That’s how it’s done.