Dear baby artichokes,
I have tried, I really have, three times in fact, to have you in my home successfully. Each time I treat you lovingly and with great care and each time you reward me with bitterness and sadness. I'm done. No matter how cute you are on the shelf in the store I'm never bringing you home again.
This time I thought I would braise you according to Mark Bittman's recipe in the New York Times. I cut you each in half, scooped out your choke with a runcible spoon, sauteed you in very good olive oil, and gave you a bath in white wine.When I tasted you I had to wash the bitter out of my mouth with black coffee. That's right, black coffee is sweet in comparison with you. But did I give up on trying to coax you out of your bitter phase, no, I did not. I treated you to a giant hot tub of pure water not once, but twice, showering you cool in between. I held my breath and tasted again imagining a sweet artichoke salad for dinner, but alas, once again you were so bitter I could not keep you in my mouth.
So I give up. We could have had a beautiful relationship, you and I, but so it goes I suppose. I like simplicity. Occham and I have something in common after all. I will not easily suffer ingredients that take multiple preparations to make for delicious food. Much like a stripper girlfriend you are lovely in small doses, but I'll leave the intimate relationships to those that want to work for it and order you from the menu from time to time.