|
COPYRIGHT 2007 All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of The Condé Nast Publications Inc.
The place was France, the time was the mid-nineteen-seventies, the evening was warm, and the thing on my plate was trying to kill me. That, at least, was the only sane conclusion at which I could possibly arrive. The thing resembled a dark-green hand grenade, and under the lamp that hung above the dinner table it gleamed and steamed, to my appalled eyes, with the promise of pure malice. I was handed a dish of melted butter, as if to initiate some sacramental rite. "Merci beaucoup," I said, although, to be frank, the last thing I needed was a dairy product. I needed the bomb squad.
The Oxford English Dictionary has this to say of the artichoke, or Cynara scolymus:...
Read the full article for free courtesy of your local library.
|
Bookmark this article
Print this article
Link to this article
Email this article
Digg It!
Add to del.icio.us
RSS
