Eastside Road, September 1, 2010—I DISTINCTLY REMEMBER being impressed, or rather perplexed, dumfounded perhaps, when I was ten or eleven years old, to hear another boy in my school say that he had no idea what an artichoke was. I had spent all my life except for one recent year in California; he was a recent arrival from Colorado. I knew nothing about Coll-oh-RAY-do, as my Oklahoma grandmother always called it, but I knew from artichokes.
Tonight Lindsey boiled them the normal way, then dressed them with melted butter and the little pesto left from yesterday. And to accompany a plate of pasta she made a fine tomato sauce, browning some onion, chopping in a few ripe red tomatoes, and simmering it with dried porcini we'd come home with the other day (thanks, Bill!). Green salad, naturally.
Cheap Nero d'Avola