In Praise of the Artichoke

We tout inventors and discoverers in textbooks and documentaries, but I've always kept a soft spot for those who are overlooked.  Like the first person to eat an artichoke. No name, no history, no gastronomic glory.

A dangerous looking plant covered in spikes and bristles, it hardly conveys an "I'm yummy, eat me" message. Ergo, that artichoke-eating trailblazer was either utterly famished or unbelievably curious. 

Did they find the heart immediately or did it take months of gnawing on leaves before the "eureka, there's actually something tasty buried in here" moment?

I was served my first artichoke at a dinner party.  Such exotic vegetables were foreign to my mother's kitchen. If it didn't come in a Green Giant can, she didn't serve it.  So I was embarrassed that I'd never seen an artichoke and even more embarrassed that I had absolutely no idea whether to attack it with a knife, a fork or a spoon.  The side dish of garlic mayonnaise just added to the dilemma.  Was it for slathering or dipping?  Either approach seemed like deplorable table manners so I waited --- and watched. 

Thankfully others at the table were artichoke-adept so I mimicked them --- until it was time to uncover the heart.  The frustration got the better of me and I blurted out that I was indeed an artichoke novice in need of guidance. 

Hundreds of artichokes later, I still imagine that first brave soul who deemed the plant edible.  Here's to your one day being at least a cookbook footnote -- or even mentioned in Wikipedia.   

Size Does Matter

Show of hands, please.  Who's going to watch the royal wedding next week live starting in the middle of the night our time?  I thought so.  Any certifiably sane person will be sound asleep. 

News flash, folks!  Said royal wedding will be repeated ad nauseam on any number of channels as well as on-line.  Unless you're actually British, I don't see the point of losing sleep over the nuptials. 

Now if you want to make a pajama party out of it, that's different.  Gather your girlfriends -- your male friends probably aren't interested unless the bridesmaids are naked.  Brew a pot of tea.  Warm a few scones. And, most importantly, don the wildest hat you can find.  

What is it with the Brits and those hats? Apparently size does matter. The wider the brim the better the hat. What's the protocol when one large hat meets another?  Does the larger hat lean to the right or the left?  One needs to know these things before delivering an air kiss.  Perhaps British girls learn these points of etiquette in school, while we Yanks -- definitely not into the large hat scene --ponder over which fork to use.

Hats perched on the side of the head are particularly interesting.  They look like the work of a crazed origami master who was let loose with yards of fabric. Since they appear to defy gravity I wonder what holds them on? 

My grandmother used hat pins so large they could pop the Hindenburg. Are they the key?   Giant bobby pins -- jeez, does anyone under a certain age know what a bobby pin is?  Maybe they're lined with a special adhesive -- kind of like a chapeau post-it, guaranteed not to give you hat-hair.

I'm thankful I wasn't invited to the royal wedding,  Too much hat anxiety.

Long Live the Paragraph!

If you follow this blog regularly, you'll notice that the last few posts appeared as one long paragraph -- no indenting, no spacing.  Lest you think I've lost my formatting mind or my grasp of English grammar, let me explain.   

While I am an avid fan of white space and short paragraphs, unfortunately the blogspot techies are not.

When I reviewed the original text, all my paragraphs were right where I left them.  But press the "publish post" icon and all semblance of paragraphing vanishes into some e.e. cummings hole in cyberspace.  Can you say "glitch"?  Can you also say "helpless"?  Can you also say --- well, perhaps I should keep that one to myself.

These are the times I think the Luddites are onto something.  But before letting a computer claim victory,  I went -- where else? -- to the "help" page. Apparently there is a virtual cadre of other victims trapped in formatting hell.  I found solace in knowing that others cherish the paragraph as I do.  I found annoyance in knowing that the solutions offered were useless.

I feel the urge to go back to those one-Dickensian-length-paragraph posts and enter the word "paragraph" where one should be.  Since I can't have actual white space, I'll just make my own.

Stay Calm -- and Carry a Cell Phone

I'm not one of those people who freak out easily. In fact, I'm usually the one who holds it all together advising others to remain calm. If I were a cartoon character, I'd be drawn with horn-rimmed glasses, my hair in a bun, wearing orthopedic shoes. You laugh, but next time you're in a situation you'll flash on that image and pray I was with you. Unfortunately, my reputation as the Queen of Calm is forever tainted. It seems I do freak out easily --- when my building elevator gets stuck between floors --- oh yeah, with me in it! In this old building the elevator has no emergency call buttons, phones, walkie-talkies, tribal drums or carrier pigeons to connect with the outside world. I had to rely on the most primitive form of communication -- yelling my freakin' head off. To no avail, I might add. I am the Moaner in Chief when it comes to people misusing their cell phones -- and that probably won't change -- but I finally got to prove my "they're great in an emergency" theory. So here I am trapped in a little box dangling in the elevator shaft. Who ya gonna call? The Fire Department! I fully expected them to bolt up the stairs, break down the door with an axe and pull me to safety. Guess I watch too many movies. Apparently they prefer a less invasive, albeit less dramatic tool -- a screwdriver. The hunky firemen took the door off its hinges, out I stepped and off they went. The good news? I climb the stairs more than I used to. Still don't quite trust Mr. Otis' invention.

Sugar Trumps Science

Think about all the diets you've been on. Well, maybe not all of them or this could take a while. You probably bought the book, watched the DVD or called the toll-free number "in the next twenty minutes" after being persuaded by the smiling, svelte infomercial success stories. Count the times you joined a gym, only to drop out. Those fees alone could probably feed an entire Guatemalan village for life. Apparently we've been doing it all wrong. Scientists have published a study that proves the best way to cut calories is to think about calories. Let's say you want a burrito. According to these lab coats, if you think enough about wanting a burrito, even mime yourself eating one, you'll trick your brain into no longer craving said burrito. It thinks it's satisfied even though nary a dollop of guacamole has passed your lips. I'm always open to possibilities but haven't found this to be true in my life. If I think about chocolate, for example, I will obsess about it until I actually have a real live bit resting on my tongue, sending my taste buds into a state of sheer bliss. Go ahead -- trick me into thinking I've already eaten leafy green vegetables, turnips and zucchini...just don't mess with my sweet tooth. Besides, if I pretend to unwrap a Snickers, won't I find imaginary peanuts? Talk about a last straw.