THIS
IS HOW YOU CONQUER AN ARTICHOKE
I
have seen strong men grow weak and pale
at
the sight of this delicious thistle.
How
can anyone be afraid of a vegetable?
And
yet they are, so it has become our task
to
make them less threatening.
First
the stems have to go, so the globes can’t be swung
like
maces upside the heads of the slow or unwary.
But
don’t throw the stems away. Just slice off
the bottom bit and boil the rest along
with the artichoke proper. (Put
lemon juice
or vinegar in the water so things don't turn dark and disgusting.)
Now
for the pointy ends. This isn’t Game of Thrones.
Scissors
work better than knives to cut the sharp
tips
off each leaf. Throw them away or compost them.
And
while you’re at it, throw away the bottom
two
or three tiers of leaves, just above where the stem was.
They’re
tough, with nothing on them you’ll enjoy.
Pick
your battles. Concentrate on prizes worth winning.
Oh,
and slice off the whole top inch or so,
sort
of as if you were giving the globe a crew cut.
That
sounds nicer than decapitation, doesn’t it?
Now
into that big kettle of acidulated water.
(That’s
Julia Child’s term. It will make you sound
very
French chef and intimidating.)
Bring
to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer
till
tender. As countless medieval battles have shown,
when
you pour oil down on your enemies
from the battlements, a
simmer’s as effective as a boil,
so
don’t waste fuel. Start testing at twenty-five
minutes,
by poking a skewer or a thin sharp knife
into
the flat base. The leaves won’t tell you anything worth knowing,
so
don’t waste time on them.
When
the base is nice and tender – don’t cook it too long –
take
the artichoke out of the water and stand it
upside
down on a rack or in a colander
to
drain out the excess water. There will
be
more than you expect. That’s typical in warfare,
no
matter if it’s water or blood running.
You’ll
notice how slicing off the top
to
make it nice and flat also makes the draining easier.
You’ll
have two basic choices at this point.
Do
you want to eat the artichoke hot, with butter,
or
cold, with mayonnaise or some other dressing?
If
the first, melt some salted butter, pour it in little dishes
and
set it on or beside your plate.
Starting
with the larger leaves at the bottom,
pull
off one at a time and dip the fleshy end,
where
it was attached, into the butter.
Now,
still holding it by the unbuttered end,
put it curved side up into your mouth,
and
drag it out again, scraping the soft
buttered
flesh of the inner leaf off with your lower teeth.
Don’t hurry. Sensual pleasures shouldn’t be rushed.
Discard
what’s left of each leaf as you finish with it.
It’s
thoughtful to provide a container for that,
or
at least to make sure one's plate is big enough to contain the debris.
You
may be surprised to find the pile of stripped leaves
looks
bigger than the artichoke did when it was whole,
rather like a field after battle.
Soon
you’ll get down to the smaller, more tender
leaves
near the middle. There’s far less waste with them.
And
then you come to the choke, no longer leaves
but
a pale, hairy tuft that you’ll want to pull off and toss away.
If you eat it, as the name implies, you'll choke.
Sometimes
you can pull most of it off –
you’ve
realized by now that eating an artichoke
is
a very hands-on proposition, at least
the
first part is, with little need for silverware –
though
you’ll probably want to scrape off the smaller
bits
of the choke with your spoon or knife.
When
you’ve done that, you’ve reached your real goal,
you’ve
stormed the gates, taken the citadel,
leaving
piles of dead and wounded in your wake.
Don’t
worry about them. Take a moment
to
peruse the site of your victory. The heart
is
like a little saucer, or a cushion, round and flat
with
a slight indentation in the middle.
After
all that hand-to-hand combat,
you’ll
need to pick up your weapons again.
Use
your knife and fork to cut the heart
into
four pieces (or three or even two,
if
you have a big mouth and don’t mind looking like
a
wild beast), then dip each piece into the butter
before
you put it in your mouth.
Do
take your time. When it’s gone, it’s gone.
The
process is the same if you eat it cold,
but
with mayonnaise or something like it instead
of
butter. I recommend letting the artichoke cool
to
room temperature rather than chilling it in the refrigerator.
You
don’t want to appear too cold-blooded,
and
I think it robs the flavor as it cools the tongue.
It’s
really very simple. Take your time,
be
fearless and deliberate. You’ll come
away
the victor, with all the choicest spoils, and unscathed.
- Victoria Stefani (draft)
So I'm a day behind, finishing yesterday's poem today, more or less, and will have to finish up today's tomorrow and then hopefully catch up.
This is another mash-up, this time of Robert Lee Brewer's suggestion to write a vegetable poem and There Is No Pilot's prompt, which was to "Write an explanatory poem, in which you give instructions on how to do something. The something can be real or metaphorical." It is true that I have seen at least one grown man quail at the prospect of eating an artichoke, and I do believe there was more to it than the prospect of something he'd never done before, or had managed to avoid so far. I certainly didn't expect the poem to wind up so long; I thought it would be more of a quick skirmish than a prolonged siege. So please, tell me what you think: should I have tackled something earthier, like turnips, or more accessible, like carrots or iceberg lettuce?
