First Book.

The first book I gave John was Pablo Neruda's Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon. We had been dating some, but he was headed out of the country for a long-extended stay in Buenos Aires, Argentina. There was no telling when we would see each other again, no way of even guessing. For the most part, I felt envious. He would be wandering around ancient streets, experiencing dynamic culture, drinking cheap, exuberant wines, and, because he's trilingual, speaking in a language I could not understand. I burned with envy, sulked with sadness, and yet, tried to be supportive. The obvious indicator of support, I suppose, is the gift of a book, which he would need on his 15+ hour long fight(s).

Reading Pablo Neruda's fiery smooth poetry is like eating rich, smooth, black chocolate. It's so dense and complex that one can only nibble a little bit at a time for fear of overstimulation. I guess that's why I like his poetry so much, you can read tiny crumbs at a time or inebriate yourself if you so desire. I gave this book to John because the English poems have their Spanish translation alongside them and I thought he'd enjoy reading both languages. And because I was crazy about him. Inside the front cover I had written a little note, it read:

John,

Hope you like the book, especially The Odes. My favorite is the Ode to the Cat - though the Ode to the Artichoke makes a close second. Hope it's aesthetically pleasing to read not only in Spanish but in Argentina as well.
Have a lovely time.

Annie

It's funny, he didn't notice the note until some time after we got engaged, over a year later. I saw the book on his shelf, turned to the inside and he leaned over my shoulder and said, "What's that?" Men.

We aren't eating artichokes right now, but we can dream about them or, better, read poetry about them. Also, there's a great recipe we've tried from Goop posted below. And, of course, what better way to appreciate the beauty of them than Neruda's Poem, Ode to the Artichoke.


Exerpt from Ode to the Artichoke

But
Then
Maria
Comes
With her basket
She chooses
An artichoke,
She's not afraid of it.
She examines it, she observes it
Up against the light like it was an egg,
She buys it,
She mixes it up
In her handbag
With a pair of shoes
With a cabbage head and a
Bottle
Of vinegar
Until
She enters the kitchen
And submerges it in a pot.

Thus ends
In peace
This career
Of the armed vegetable
Which is called an artichoke,
Then
Scale by scale,
We strip off
The delicacy
And eat
The peaceful mush
Of its green heart.

That's my favorite part. For the full poem, click here.

Steamed Artichokes with Cheat’s Aioli. (Courtesy of www.goop.com)

Any vegetable would be delicious dipped in this aioli and it’s also good for a sandwich. The basil’s great here.

SERVES: 2
TIME: 45 minutes, largely unattended

2 artichokes, trimmed 1/2 cup mayonnaise or Veganaise (the only substitute that tastes good) 1 clove garlic, crushed

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 1/4 of a juicy lemon) pinch of coarse sea salt a generous tablespoon of thinly sliced basil

Steam the artichokes for about 45 minutes or until they give little resistance when you pierce them with a paring knife.

Meanwhile, mix the rest of the ingredients together in a bowl.

Let the artichokes cool a bit and serve them with the aioli. To eat, peel off each leaf, swipe it through the aioli, scrape it with your teeth and repeat over and over. When you get to the heart, remove the sharp thistle and enjoy the best part of the artichoke.

Following With Ease.

My brother is a farmer on the cusp of Santa Fe, New Mexico. In high school he was a supreme jock, semi-smooth ladies man and stellar athlete, doubtless following with ease the same path of my father who was also a socially gifted, athletic man. Yet, midway through his bullying high school jock years, he began meeting with a group of other “dudes” (aka: a small group, religiously centered) and instead of pushing me around kid-sister style, he began instead to drop tiny seeds in pots and watched as they pushed themselves up out of the dirt. Our basement was cornered with his plants. Seems that the more they sprouted and blossomed, the kinder he became. Although I cannot possibly chart this correlation into fact, I can say that he ditched his “bad-A” persona, faded away from the basketball courts, mellowed and worked in the dirt. He planted a tree in the front yard of my mother’s house – without bothering to ask permission, went off to college and beyond, farming here and there along the way. He was also a consistent “stalker” of his mentor a la literature: Wendell Berry. (I say that with kindness, only to suggest he traveled through a few states to hear a lecture or two. Or three.)

He was a very demanding brother. Often he would charge me to do, go, get, be, try, finish, etc. He pushed his interests with the confidence and superiority of an elder. He told me where I should go to school, he expressed his disappointment when I didn’t quite finish, he clogged my ears with his music and he criticized my outfits. Yet he never once told me I should start growing my own food. He never said I should try to eat organic and he wouldn’t guide me towards farmers markets. He kept his passion to himself, with the wisdom and confidence held in his mind that people would “get it” sooner or later. He was cultivating organic foods on remote farms before most of the fussy labels were even slapped on and placed in the aisle of a grocery store. He was ridiculed and labeled all sorts of mean hippy names by his peers who were heading off to business school. He refused to spray pesticides, even for Ralph Lauren. He went off to Argentina and returned drinking Matte out of a carved gourd before anyone knew what it was (I didn’t, anyway). He worked on farms in Oregon, Boston, Tennessee and scraped the dirt off his hands with dignity. I could be wrong, but in my eyes, he claimed a stake in the ethics of farming before it coincided with “trendy.” Of course, there are people who have been farming in America since before the country was named. What he does is by no means groundbreaking. I don’t mean to suggest that he is an innovator to the farming institution, only that he is an innovator to me, and I think he would be to you too if you knew him.

I don’t know why I want to glorify him. It could be because I am trying to follow his ways, or it could be because the person that ridiculed him as a “hippy-loving tree hugger” is now (in all likelihood) eating the organic food straight from where he farms. I’m just proud of him, that’s all. People who work hard deserve credit and people who are mocked because they do what they love, yet do it anyway deserve a little bit of glory, even if it is from their blogging kid sister.