I had never eaten, nor prepared, an artichoke. I've had canned and bottled artichoke hearts, marinated and not, but I'd never eaten a fresh, whole one: pulled off the leaves layer by layer, dipping them in mayonnaise, melted butter or vinaigrette, scraping the fleshy part of each leaf with my teeth, until at last you reach the inedible choke and the payoff, the heart. The people who describe it to me are usually rapturous or nostalgic with the adventure of wading through all those rough leaves to find the delicate, and appropriately named, heart.

Having steamed and eaten my first artichoke (with both garlic butter and lemon vinaigrette for dipping), I'm ambivalent. I enjoy the adventure, the big messy pile of leaves that overtake your plate as you eat down, down to the end, but I'm not entirely sure about the flavor. Green and mild, the flavor of the flesh was kind of masked by the accompaniments. Todd started eating them plain, which was a better way to actually taste spring in it. As we reached the center, the tips of the leaves became entirely edible, revealing the satisfying texture that we would find at the heart, firm but without a crunch. I think maybe after all the work for so little payoff, the heart feels like a motherlode.