Miraculous thistles

...that is, the artichoke: so fierce is its capacity for "taste perversion" that in my family we gave our own name to the imagined molecule that grants all food eaten after an artichoke its greenly sweet and fragrant flavor. Artichokine, alchemical transmutation if the tastebuds, turning even water to a milky golden honey on the tongue, a blessed savoring like a kind of salt for sweetness. So wholly mystical is the power of the artichoke upon me that it was not until last week that I discovered not everyone is set in gentle raptures by its flavor; its peculiar science is such that only some of us are sweet-struck by the spiky purple blossom. For some, an artichoke is a pleasant green beginning to a meal, soaked in butter and sopped up with happy gusto, but besides the fine flavor of the thing there is no special magic; a few, poor souls, find it makes things bitter to the taste. But surely Pablo Neruda's mouth was melted into divine and mellow alteration by its burnished leaves: his 'Ode to the Artichoke' almost makes me weep, so purely does he love the soul of this proud plant. (My favorite translation is by Stephen Mitchell; I can't find it online, but it's from the book Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon and there is nothing I can say but that I, too, love to 'eat/the peaceful flesh/of its green heart'...) Like me, he finds the artichoke a strange and mythic beast, gentle under its close-spiraled crown of thorns...

Whatever your spiritual inclinations to the flower, if you like artichokes at all, for any reason, on a cold night when you are contemplating loneliness something almost as good as a stew and much more simple is this warm and tender recipe:

Artichoke Soul Pasta

All you need is a handful of mushrooms, a few cloves of garlic, plenty of butter and a can of artichokes -- whole, quartered, whatever, it doesn't matter as long as they're not marinated -- and a pot of the pasta of your choosing. Something pleasantly chunky like farfalle works best, so the sauce can seep into all the cracks and you can take nice satisfying heavy forkfuls of it without any silly twirling... 

While the water (well salted and dashed with olive oil) boils for the pasta, melt a lump of butter, maybe a couple of tablespoons, and chop the mushrooms into little bits and throw them in. Salt and pepper liberally. Mince the garlic, toss it in too, and give it a good stir; put the pot on medium low and leave it there.

Drain the artichokes -- not into the sink, however, for the juices, saved for later, make a wonderful delicate broth for all tomorrow's soups -- and chop as many as you like, perhaps a heaped cupped handful. I can never resist eating a couple right out of the tin tube of the can, just to feel the singing on my tongue as the marvelous chemicals get down to their alchemical dance...

Toss them in the pot, stirring occasionally until the pasta is done. Mix it all together in your favorite bowl, the one that is most satisfyingly heavy, solid, reassuring. If you are an artichoke dreamer, do not put cheese on it. Just have a glass of water to sip dreamily, and a book from your childhood to read...