Last night, Brad and I conquered our first artichoke.
Sure, we’ve had it in dips before (my friend Keri makes an AMAZING spinach-artichoke dip), but never fresh. Because, hello? We used to live in Iowa. Artichoke season is about three heartbeats long there.
But this past weekend we went to the most glorious farmers’ market (with a sprout bar, bottles of beet kvass, soaked grain breads, and raw–really raw–nuts) and knew we had to get one.
I labored under the wise guidance of David Lebovitz and when we were finished:
This is what one fresh artichoke nets you. We each got a few bites of the heart, and that was it. It wasn’t amazing and probably wasn’t worth the $2 we spent on it.
Since yesterday was also our wedding anniversary, I’ve been thinking how very much preparing an artichoke is like facing life together. You labor together, you sweat, you might nick your finger, you work and work and what do you get? Something small. Something that at first might seem like disappointment, but is actually the tender heart of the matter. It doesn’t look like much. In fact, it might look like walking up the sidewalk to that first appointment with a new doctor, but it’s the most important part.
And now, because I never get tired of looking at this: My ridiculously handsome husband.
I mean…
