Artichoke

Let's talk about the artichoke, and let's not be afraid of it.

An artichoke is a flower bud. You are eating a bud that never got the chance to bloom. That's why it's so tightly packed, leaf over leaf, guarding a soft heart in the middle. Cut one open and it browns fast in the air — that's just oxidation, the same thing that happens to a sliced apple. Nothing is wrong with the vegetable; it simply meets oxygen and reacts. Rub it with lemon and it slows down.

Choose an artichoke by sound and by feel. Squeeze it gently — a fresh one squeaks, and the leaves rub against each other and complain. A tired one stays silent and soft, and the leaves open loosely like a flower giving up.

Some people say the hairy choke inside is poisonous. No! It's simply inedible and too fibrous; it would scratch your throat like a brush. Nothing dangerous about it. But that belief makes cooks throw the whole heart away out of fear, when the heart is the best part, the reward you dig for. Scrape the choke off, and eat what's underneath.