Eating one is such a fiddly, intense process that you can’t think about anything else. But the season’s nearly done, more’s the pity
Amid the mind-cluttering chaos of political parties ripping themselves apart like cannibal rats in a barrel, dictators threatening nuclear war, climate catastrophe and so on, we could all do with something to quieten the bad thoughts. Recently, I found mine: a globe artichoke. It had been a while since I’d been served one in the classic style, with jugs of Dijon-bonded vinaigrette. In the 1970s, these were a staple of my mother’s fancier dinner parties; a marker of a certain sophistication, which took its lead from France, where they recognised the edible possibilities of a humble thistle.
What I had forgotten was just how blissfully engrossing the process of eating one can be. Each thick, olive-green petal must be pulled from its sticking place, dipped into the dressing, before the business end is dragged over the teeth to get at the mother lode. Finally, you must dispose of that leaf, and start again. Repeat, dozens of times. Of course, it’s delicious. But more importantly, it’s impossible to think about anything else other than the job at hand while eating one. The profound comfort of that is not to be underestimated.
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