O! to plumb the depths of this artichoke!

The heart of this one, the first of the garden, the first artichoke I have ever grown, was wide and flat and thin, not meaty and compact and fat like grocery stories.


It was harder to eat. So thrilling! There is something illicit about the eating of an artichoke. I peel back your leaves and think illicit thoughts of new acquaintances.

It has something to do with the wine. There is that good Honey Moon Viognier, so cheap and so sweet and so summery good. I would not broach such topics if it weren't for you. In the background Madeleine Peyroux and her lonesomeness.

And then I move onto the Petite Syrah with the labrodor retriever on the label.

Of course, it should be mentioned that I did not start and finish the Viognier tonight.

That was opened two days ago.

Why would I lie to you?
To quote Mr. Hayes, "You think the world owes you? It don't owe you a thing."

But for this artichoke. Labored over and purged of aphids and ants, those milkers of green insects whose evility even surpasses that of the depths of Mordor!

Again, I blame the wine.

Wrapped around the grape, as a friend of my mother's used to say.


A series of subtitles that provoke the wet of the eyes

The prospect of friends downstate

In short, an evening spent solitary and goodly alone, with thoughts always on the imperfectly perfect love.