The Lesson of the Artichoke

Fri, 01 Apr 2011 00:00:00 -0400

The buds are harvested before their hour,
Then must be steamed or boiled before they yield
The tongue-like sepals with their toothsome bracts
Attached to the receptacle, or heart,
That stores the petals of the future flower.

Your mother will instruct you how to score
Each fleshy leaf between your teeth until
You reach the inmost flimsy purple tent
Tethered around the terminated thistle,
Which nestles neatly in the meaty core.

She’ll use her knife to sever and excise
The petal-bristles from their concave bed,
Explaining that they’re in the way, and that
They’re called the choke, and you must never eat them,
Nor let them keep you from the savory prize.

Because you know your mother wouldn’t trick you,
And life (so far) has not been dangerous,
You dip the gutted heart in melted butter
And gird your novice tongue for the unknown.
When you want more, she offers you her own.

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Olea Europaea

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0400

The salty Peloponnese flood
Of minerals and Trojan blood
Is in this oily, briny fruit,
Savored by Milton to salute
The poets of antiquity.
It is the flavor of the sea
And ink squirtings of cephalopods;
Mortality plucked from a god’s
Martini at the end of time,
When guilt squares up with every crime,
And joy has run its fi-nal course,
And nothing but divine remorse
Attends the last aperitif:
It is the very taste of grief.

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The Lesson of the Artichoke

Olea Europaea