artichoke heart attack

My dad taught me how to eat artichokes. It was our special ritual, because no one else in the family really cared for them. He'd come home with two, I'd practically squeal, and then the slow patient process of waiting for them to steam. The meal where the two of us were the last left at the table because it took us so long to pull each leaf, dip in melted butter, scrape with our teeth. Or, if there were leftovers, cold with mayonnaise.

I had one tonight, the first one I've ever cooked and eaten on my own. The process was awkward, I boiled it in my only saucepan, a pot too small to submerge it entirely. Flipped it every ten minutes until it seemed done. Stood in my table-less kitchen, at the counter, with the sun setting out the window and half a glass of white wine, my dish of melted butter (which I bought special for the artichoke, I don't use butter for anything else), my bowl for the chewed-up leaves. It's a greedy process, meditative, repetitive. Pluck, dip, scrape. Pluck, drip, scrape. Sip your wine. Your face gets a little buttery, there's no grace to it, you become a beast. Fibers catch in your teeth. Eventually the leaves pare down from thorny finger-prickling shells to gauzy little petals. Airy things. It's like plucking a bird's wing, from pinion to down. I like to read when I'm eating at home, I like to multitask, but an artichoke is too all-consuming. It's a food that demands your eyes and brain.

I saved the heart for tomorrow. Too many riches for just one night.