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Who Will Buy His Artichokes, Now?
Each spring, I waited in anticipation for the beauty and deliciousness of an artichoke. I would buy a large globe that was firm to the touch.
I’d make the kids an early dinner of Annie’s Mac & Cheese and send them off to do their homework. Then, I’d clean the pot and fill it with cold water, place it on the still-warm burner, and add my secret seasoning mix: half a lemon and its juice, half a head of garlic, peppercorns, salt. While the water was coming to a boil, I’d carefully trim the sharp spikes from the tips of the leaves. Then I’d gently place the artichoke in the pot, weight it down with a salad plate, and cook it until the leaves were tender and easily removed — which I determined by the feel of my paring knife sliding into the cut stem.
I would glance at the clock, counting the minutes, while dicing garlic and sauteeing a couple of cloves in real butter, adding lemon, more butter, and a touch of Grey Poupon. While delicious smells filled the kitchen, I’d pour my sauce into two separate ramekins and pluck two good plates from the cupboard above my head. I would drain the artichoke, allow it to cool, and place it into a lovely bowl with a pattern of cobalt blue on white porcelain.
He didn’t drink, but I’d pour myself a small glass of chardonnay. Minutes later, he’d walk in the door, catch the scent of garlic-butter and lemon…
