The Artichoke (The Paris Review)

I just love artichokes, and found a poem this morning on the Paris Review about one. I couldn’t resist sharing it. The obsession knows no bounds.

The first time I saw it, I thought what an ugly specimen. It looked like Grandma’s bathing cap, grown green and small after all these years. I sliced it open and tasted the pale flesh. And gradually she offered herself up leaf by leaf. In her depth she held a tiny, faded star, a spark that fell in the meteor shower over Frank’s garden. I developed a taste for her expensive style: fancy restaurants, wines by candlelight. Continue reading

A “moveable (and disorientating) feast” – a chronicle on la Ville Lumière

Paris, Paris, Paris. Dates that sat in my head for months on end after a hasty Airfrance booking made at the end of October, calendars with dates being ticked off, conversations, Facetimes, Messenger calls had with a long-suffering David (I say conversations: best to define them as panicked rants)  Continue reading