“Did you see my cardoons?”
Mike pointed to a pile of leafless, longer celery. I have eaten cardoons, I remember, at an optimistic Sicilian-only restaurant in Manhattan, long- and quickly gone, and in one other place, forgotten. Never saw them in a market before, and the produce guy, who pretends to know me, was proud.
I looked, touched, and didn’t buy, a cooking coward. Then I drove back.
![](https://www.artsjournal.com/outthere/wp/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/IMG_4867-500x667.jpg)
The plant seemed bruised and tired, with browning ends, but I read what I had to do: it’s a thistle, an artichoke cousin, so I sheared the white, whiskery thorns off the edges, extracted its veins like a Renaissance doctor, cut away what rot I could, and sliced my surviving reward into adult pieces.
Boiled the impersonators for a while in salted water and a spoon of flour, dredged them out, sautéed in butter and olive oil — yes, I imagined they were old celery friends, Twilight Zone aliens in disguise — and covered ’em in whatever broth I had, chicken today. Simmered till soft, made a soup with egg and Parmesan, Italian fashion.
Not really like artichoke, to which it is related, neither heart nor leaf-scrape. Nothing like celery, if you eat blind, though simultaneously fleshy and chewy.
![](https://www.artsjournal.com/outthere/wp/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/IMG_4868-500x500.jpg)
Another stolen method, but recipes float in clouds and rain on me. Words that sound alike are homonyms. Foods that look alike are deceptive homo twins. A warning: be as mindful of their flavors as they are. Every result is confusion, always welcome.
I have grown and cooked cardoons and I love them, especially baked with Parmesan. I’ll have to try your soup recipe, Jeff.
I tasted cardoons years and years ago at Chez Panisse. Not even Alice Waters could make this a desired vegetable! But I love your description.