The Unapologetic Joy of Artichokes
I think most people underestimate the artichoke.
It sits in the grocery store like a spiky alien, the kind of thing you walk past because you’re not sure if it’s meant to be eaten or admired from a distance.
It’s not friendly like an apple.
It doesn’t scream “slice me open and eat me raw” the way a melon does.
The artichoke has attitude (like most of us!).
It’s armored, and it’s the vegetable equivalent of someone who doesn’t text back right away.
And that’s why I love it so dearly.
A First Encounter
My first artichoke wasn’t even fresh.
It was one of those pale hearts from a can, soaked in brine, looking like little folded flowers preserved in a weird science experiment where nothing goes right.
They were slippery, slightly tangy, and felt almost too delicate for my fork.
But then…there was the taste.
Nutty, earthy, a little bitter in a way that made everything else on the plate feel too sweet, too simple.
It was like a flavor that had lived a full life of happiness, sunshine, and pure soil before showing up at dinner.
Fresh artichokes came later, when my mom stuffed them with garlic and breadcrumbs.
That’s when I discovered the fun of eating these tricky vegetables!
Pulling leaf after leaf, dipping it in butter (brown the butter before throwing in some garlic, you’re welcome!!), scraping the flesh with your teeth.
It’s not just a meal, it’s a process (one that my husband isn’t patient enough for).
It’s slow.
It demands that you stop multitasking.
You don’t rush an artichoke experience.
You sit with it, you strip it down, you respect the work…or else grandma will be disappointed in you.
A Vegetable With History
Artichokes aren’t some trendy vegetable that popped up in the last decade because of TikTok recipes.
They’ve been around for literal centuries.
Ancient Greeks and Romans grew them.
Catherine de’ Medici brought them to France in the 16th century, scandalizing the men at court with her enthusiasm. (She supposedly loved them so much that people whispered it was indecent. She is my spirit animal.)
This vegetable has outlasted empires, survived the centuries, and still somehow manages to be overlooked by the average shopper.
Meanwhile, I’m over here romanticizing the hell out of them.
The Ritual of Eating One Whole
If you’ve never sat down with a whole steamed artichoke, here’s the truth: it is not polite food (like crab or lobster).
You’re peeling, dipping, scraping, discarding.
Your plate fills with chewed leaves, and if you’re with someone who doesn’t “get it,” they’ll look horrified.
…And that’s their loss.
The best part comes after all the work of leaves are gone: the heart.
The tender, buttery core, sitting beneath the fuzzy choke like some kind of secret prize.
You cut into it, and suddenly every leaf you scraped was worth it.
It’s one of those foods where the journey and the destination matter equally.
There are very few foods like that these days.
Lobster, maybe (which we can’t eat in my house due to allergies). Pomegranates…which I am also overly enthusiastic about eating.
But artichokes do it best.
Artichokes in the Kitchen
I’ve tried them every way:
Grilled, brushed with olive oil and lemon until the edges char.
Stuffed with breadcrumbs, garlic, and cheese, baked until they’re golden and impossible to resist.
Pureed into dips so creamy and addictive that I swear I could eat an entire loaf of bread just as an excuse to keep going back.
Baked into pies.
Tossed into pasta, tangled up indecently with ribbons of home-made linguine and parmesan.
There’s no wrong way to eat an artichoke, except maybe not eating one at all. Or choking on one.
That’s not the proper way to eat it either…chew and swallow my friends.
The Slightly Ridiculous Side of My Obsession
I have, at times, gone a little overboard.
I once convinced myself I could grow them in a tiny apartment windowsill garden.
(Spoiler: they are not windowsill plants. They’re basically thistle royalty that demand a kingdom.)
I also have a bad habit of buying the giant Costco packs of marinated artichoke hearts, eating half the jar in one sitting, and then wondering why I feel like I swallowed half the Mediterranean Sea.
Ask my husband about the time I ordered four orders of them from J Alexanders then spent all night on the toilet (you wouldn’t believe how much fiber is in them!).
But I don’t regret it. Not for a second.
Artichokes and Personality
Here’s the thing: food often mirrors personality.
People who love plain toast are different from people who crave five-alarm chili.
So what does loving artichokes say about me?
Probably that I’m stubborn.
A little complicated.
I like things that make me work for them.
Dopamine foods are my favorite.
An artichoke doesn’t hand itself over easily.
You have to prove yourself worthy, peel away the armor, and keep going even when it feels repetitive.
Only then do you get to the good part.
That feels… relatable.
The Briney Canned Ones Deserve Love Too
Now, I know food purists will argue that canned or jarred artichokes are inferior.
But listen: they have their place.
They’re ready when you’re desperate.
They sneak into salads and sandwiches.
They blend beautifully into soups.
Toss them in egg then flour and fry them, it might change your life.
And when you’re tired or broke or just need a quick hit of that earthy taste, they deliver.
Do they look a little oxidized sometimes? Yes.
Do I care? Not at all.
The flavor still lingers and that’s really what I’m after.
The Metaphor I Can’t Resist
If you hang around me long enough, you know I can’t resist turning food into metaphor (or just about anything for that matter).
Artichokes are basically life in vegetable form.
They’re tough on the outside, guarded, even intimidating.
But if you’re patient, if you take the time, if you’re willing to get messy, you discover something tender and rich inside.
Hint: that’s us. That’s people.
That’s why I’ll never stop eating them.
The Trouble (and Joy) of Pairing Wine with Artichokes
Here’s the thing about artichokes: they’re delicious, but they’re troublemakers at the dinner table.
If you’ve ever tried to pair them with wine and thought, “Why does this taste… weird?”, you’re not alone.
Artichokes contain a fun compound called cynarin, which is a natural chemical that plays tricks on your tongue.
Cynarin actually makes water (and certain other foods and drinks) taste strangely sweet.
Lovely when you’re just sipping water.
Not so lovely when you’re pouring a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and suddenly it tastes like someone dropped a sugar cube in it…yuck.
This is why sommeliers call artichokes one of the finickiest foods for wine pairing.
These rebels change the rules mid-bite.
But don’t worry, there are ways to make it work.
Go for bright and zesty. Wines with high acidity, like Sauvignon Blanc, Vermentino, or Grüner Veltliner, can hold their own. The sharpness cuts through the artichoke’s nutty bitterness and keeps the sweetness trick from feeling cloying.
Lean into bubbles. Sparkling wines are magic here. Prosecco, Cava, or even a bone-dry Champagne give you freshness, effervescence, and enough lift to dance around cynarin’s mischief.
Try something unexpected. Dry sherry, with its nutty and savory notes, can echo the artichoke’s earthiness in a surprisingly beautiful way.
And if all else fails…reach for sake. Seriously, a crisp Junmai Ginjo or a clean Junmai Daiginjo offers subtle umami and soft acidity that actually can harmonize with the artichoke instead of fighting it.
It’s a pairing that feels delicate, surprising, and deeply satisfying.
Pairing artichokes with wine is all about experimentation, laughter at the table, and discovering which glass makes the whole night sing.
Family Ties in a Thorny Vegetable
Food is memory wearing a messy apron.
The way Christmas Eve or a special occasion always seemed to smell faintly of steam and lemon and garlic.
That artichoke pie that meant “company’s coming, the house is alive with chatter.”
It’s not just about artichokes anymore.
It’s about tradition and memory passed through hands, about love disguised as vegetables.
Here is my artichoke pie recipe (my mom makes the best one, but I have adjusted it over the years to be more “Michele”):
For the dough (homemade pie crust, but you can also buy from the store!):
2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp sugar (optional, for balance)
1 cup (2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes
½ cup ice water (more or less as needed)
For the filling:
2 cans artichoke hearts (drained well, chopped roughly)
1 medium onion, finely diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp olive oil
½ cup fresh parsley, chopped (packed, because fresh is best)
3 large eggs
1 ½ cups mozzarella cheese, shredded
½ cup triple crème cheese (Brie or Saint André style works), cut into small chunks
Salt and pepper to taste
Pinch of red pepper flakes (optional, for a little warmth)
Instructions
Make the dough:
In a large bowl, whisk flour, salt, and sugar.
Add the cold butter cubes. Using your fingertips or a pastry cutter, rub the butter into the flour until the mixture looks like coarse crumbs (a few larger pea-sized bits are perfect).
Drizzle in ice water a little at a time, mixing with a fork, until the dough just comes together. Don’t overwork it.
Divide into two discs (top and bottom crust), wrap in plastic, and chill for at least 1 hour.
Prepare the filling:
Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add onions and cook until soft and translucent, about 7 minutes.
Stir in garlic and cook until fragrant, around 1 minute.
Add the chopped artichoke hearts and sauté until warmed through and slightly golden at the edges, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat.
In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs lightly. Stir in parsley, mozzarella, triple crème, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Fold in the artichoke mixture.
Assemble the pie:
Preheat oven to 375°F (190°C).
Roll out one disc of chilled dough on a floured surface and line a 9-inch pie pan. Let the edges hang over slightly.
Spoon the filling evenly into the crust.
Roll out the second disc of dough and lay it over the top. Trim any excess, then crimp or fold the edges to seal. Cut a few slits in the top for steam to escape.
Brush the top lightly with an egg wash (1 egg beaten with 1 tbsp water) for golden shine.
Bake:
Place on the center rack and bake for 45–55 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbling slightly at the edges.
Let rest 15 minutes (if you can) before slicing so the cheeses can settle and not spill everywhere (though a little ooze is part of the charm).
Artichokes in Culture and Myth
The Greeks had a myth about artichokes, because…of course they did.
Zeus (being Zeus) fell for a mortal woman named Cynara.
When she rejected him, he turned her into the first artichoke.
It’s a petty, very Zeus-like thing to do, but also fitting.
The artichoke has always been tangled up in desire, power, and defiance.
Fast forward a couple thousand years, and it shows up everywhere from Renaissance paintings to mid-century cookbooks.
Marilyn Monroe, believe it or not, was once crowned “Artichoke Queen” in Castroville, California, the so-called artichoke capital of the world.
(The town still has an artichoke festival every year, because vegetables deserve crowns too.)
It’s a plant that’s been royalty, punishment, celebration, and scandal…depending on who you ask.
That alone makes it more interesting than 90% of what’s in the produce aisle.
Cooking Experiments Gone Right (and Wrong)
If you’ve ever tried cooking a fresh artichoke without Googling instructions first, you know the chaos.
You boil it too short and the leaves are still stiff as paper.
Too long and it falls apart in the pot, waterlogged and sulking.
But once you get it right, you unlock one of the most satisfying food rituals known to humankind.
Stuffing them is another game entirely. Breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic, parmesan. Every family does it differently, and every family insists theirs is the “right” way.
Spoiler: they’re all right.
And then there are the dips.
Spinach-artichoke dip is the obvious one, that bubbling cauldron of creaminess that appears at every party.
But there are lighter versions too: blended with lemon and herbs, spread onto sandwiches, stirred into risottos. Artichokes never complain about being dressed up or down.
They’re as flexible as one of those ladies in the ballet.
Of course, I’ve also had disasters.
Trying to roast canned artichokes until they were “crispy.” (They weren’t.)
Attempting to pickle them at home without realizing how much vinegar that requires. (Too much. Far too much.) But even the failures come with flavor!
Growing the Impossible
Don’t get excited to grow your own, learn from my errors.
They’re notoriously finicky. They want Mediterranean sun, dry air, and plenty of space.
Not the easiest plant to coax from the ground if you’re anywhere else (apparently Philadelphia is not that).
But oh, the thought of walking into your backyard and seeing those armored buds rising like green crowns among the leaves.
That’s something I daydream about every spring.
Maybe one day I’ll have a greenhouse to actually plant them in successfully.
Until then, I’ll keep buying mine in jars, cans, or at the store, pretending I live in Sicily.
Random Cameos for Artichokes
Artichokes sneak into places you wouldn’t expect:
Italian Easter pies (pizza rustica), where they’re layered with cheese and meats.
Old cookbooks that treat them like exotic jewels.
Cocktail bars that use Cynar, an artichoke-based amaro, in bitter, complex drinks.
Even the word itself has traveled strangely.
“Articiocco” in Italian, “alcachofa” in Spanish, “al-khurshuf” in Arabic.
Say it out loud and it almost feels like you’re chewing the word before you swallow it.
An Ode to My Favorite Vegetable
I will always love artichokes.
They’ve carried my family’s history: my grandma steaming them on Christmas Eve, my mom pulling pies out of the oven when company was on the way, and the countless nights when their smell meant something special was happening.
They’ve carried my own stubborn affection for foods that make you work a little (or a lot), foods that don’t give everything away at once.
The artichoke isn’t flashy.
I’ve twice been asked at the store by a stranger how to cook them.
Its magic lives in the quiet ritual of leaf by leaf, in the comfort of old traditions, in the joy of gooey mozzarella stretching out of a pie.
So here’s to artichokes: the thorny, awkward, beautiful reminder that the best things in life are worth the work.
And when I bite into one, I’m not just tasting food. I’m tasting home.
Thanks mom for letting me publicize your artichoke pie recipe…it might change someone’s life!
If you want to try growing your own, I used these Purple Romagna seeds and also the Green Globe ones. Happy planting!
