Several days ago, I experienced a spine-chilling thrill, a rupture of Apocalyptic proportions, to wit, an alimentary orgasm. And what induced this Scriptural response? An artichoke. In need of groceries, I set foot in a Sainsbury’s for the first time, place where I would encounter my mythical artichoke; none of the shops I usually frequent sell it. I couldn’t contain myself and rapidly placed one in my cart before greedily dumping three more—I had to take advantage of this moment, “a once in a lifetime event” I reasoned.
I am enthused with artichokes, so much that I contemplated on various occasions to construct a soilbox and grow artichokes there. According to various sites, the soil of the British Isles, though mediocre, would make the cultivation of this wonderful vegetable possible. Fortunately, now I won’t have to. Perhaps I’ll chance upon some deliciously piquant capers next?
Keeping to the artichoke thread, a year ago, I chanced upon a Trader Joe’s while in Washington, D.C. What would have amounted to a mundane affair in California, was to take a festive, circus-like air. The place was crawling with glistening Yuppies, busily prattling and cackling; and amongst le vexant cas anthropologique vivant, I found some artichokes.
After queueing up for 15 minutes, I reached the front of the queu. Between the beeps, I rocked and the autumnal dell of my imagination engendered new ideas from shadows. Meanwhile, the cashier reaches the artichokes, secure in their small and diluted plastic container and ready to be scanned.
— “Do you mind if I ask you something?” she says.
— Caught off guard, I manage a “No, what is it?”
— “Are you Jewish?”
— “No.”
— “Well, you see, everyone that I’ve seen purchase artichokes here has been Jewish,” she confides.
— “That’s strange.”
Equally mystifying, according to the rotund cabal at Wikipedia, capirotada, the Mexican bread pudding I have been craving lately is a Jewish dish.