- Joined
- May 7, 2011
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- 3,426
The rain had finally stopped after three days of pouring, but the sky was still grey with clouds. Spring was coming...but winter still had alot to give before going away.
The man with a beard walked slowly in the field, looking carefully between the plants. As he had hoped, the artichoke season wasn't over yet, and rain had brought some more. His love for artichokes was old; he remembered when he was a child, and his aunt brought them glass jars of cleaned artichokes in oil, and he and his mother grabbed a fork and some bread and had some in the late afternoon. Now he enjoyed them in many other ways, and basically loved to eat them raw with a bit of olive oil, salt and vinegar, but nothing can erase the taste of childhood years.
He kept his knife in his right hand, left hand wrapped in a thick glove. He felt weird and goofy with the glove, but the doctor had been very specific and he needed to use a glove until his stitches were removed. yet his moves were the same as ever. He looked down as he walked slowly, stopped quite often, a couple seconds to knee down, grab the artichoke, cut it from the base with his knife, and stand up again. A wooden box close to him received the spined green thing, and then he would move along and search for more.
His glove, his hand and the blade of his knife shared the same tone of dark greenish grey that looked almost black without direct sunlight. He dind't bother to wipe his blade, nor take care of the spines that were stuck on his glove. He would deal with that later, after the work was done.
His brother in law walked slowly and very carefully a few steps behind him; it looked like he was walking on broken glass with his bare feet. Born far away from the island, he had no notion of this sort of artichoke. The ones he knew were round, sweeter, with virtually no spines and thorns, and that's why a few days earlier he had learned the hard way that these artichokes were tougher, and had thick pointy spines that would bite easily. Yet he liked the taste of them, and a spine or two in the palm of his hand were a cheap price for a lesson learned. So now he walked behind the man, both with tall plastic boots, paying attention to every step, yet enjoying the walk. The man with the beard ahead of him spoke very little as he collected artichokes, but the morning was so peaceful that neither of them felt much need of words.
The man with the beard stopped, collected a small one, and turned to his brother in law with his best effort to smile. He used his knife to cut the head of the artichoke and tossed it in the box, then used his knife to peel the fibrous stem, and handled the heart of it to the shaved man looking at him.
"Most foreigners throw it away, but this is the best part of the plant" he murmured, cutting it in half, and sharing it in the middle of the field.
The shaved man gave it a try, expecting a harsh bitter taste, and soon discovered a sweet core of taste in the stem, that felt juicier than he had expected. He smiled, and the man with the beard handled him his knife and another stem to peel and eat. The long, pointy blade could glide through the stem, and the shaved man liked the feeling of the handle.
"I'm having one made for you, just like mine. It should be here soon. So when you get back home, you have something decent to cut your vegetables with".
The wooden box was full now. They would fill another one, then drive back home in the small town. A themed lunch would follow, and both of them were looking forward to it...
Fausto
The man with a beard walked slowly in the field, looking carefully between the plants. As he had hoped, the artichoke season wasn't over yet, and rain had brought some more. His love for artichokes was old; he remembered when he was a child, and his aunt brought them glass jars of cleaned artichokes in oil, and he and his mother grabbed a fork and some bread and had some in the late afternoon. Now he enjoyed them in many other ways, and basically loved to eat them raw with a bit of olive oil, salt and vinegar, but nothing can erase the taste of childhood years.
He kept his knife in his right hand, left hand wrapped in a thick glove. He felt weird and goofy with the glove, but the doctor had been very specific and he needed to use a glove until his stitches were removed. yet his moves were the same as ever. He looked down as he walked slowly, stopped quite often, a couple seconds to knee down, grab the artichoke, cut it from the base with his knife, and stand up again. A wooden box close to him received the spined green thing, and then he would move along and search for more.
His glove, his hand and the blade of his knife shared the same tone of dark greenish grey that looked almost black without direct sunlight. He dind't bother to wipe his blade, nor take care of the spines that were stuck on his glove. He would deal with that later, after the work was done.
His brother in law walked slowly and very carefully a few steps behind him; it looked like he was walking on broken glass with his bare feet. Born far away from the island, he had no notion of this sort of artichoke. The ones he knew were round, sweeter, with virtually no spines and thorns, and that's why a few days earlier he had learned the hard way that these artichokes were tougher, and had thick pointy spines that would bite easily. Yet he liked the taste of them, and a spine or two in the palm of his hand were a cheap price for a lesson learned. So now he walked behind the man, both with tall plastic boots, paying attention to every step, yet enjoying the walk. The man with the beard ahead of him spoke very little as he collected artichokes, but the morning was so peaceful that neither of them felt much need of words.
The man with the beard stopped, collected a small one, and turned to his brother in law with his best effort to smile. He used his knife to cut the head of the artichoke and tossed it in the box, then used his knife to peel the fibrous stem, and handled the heart of it to the shaved man looking at him.
"Most foreigners throw it away, but this is the best part of the plant" he murmured, cutting it in half, and sharing it in the middle of the field.
The shaved man gave it a try, expecting a harsh bitter taste, and soon discovered a sweet core of taste in the stem, that felt juicier than he had expected. He smiled, and the man with the beard handled him his knife and another stem to peel and eat. The long, pointy blade could glide through the stem, and the shaved man liked the feeling of the handle.
"I'm having one made for you, just like mine. It should be here soon. So when you get back home, you have something decent to cut your vegetables with".
The wooden box was full now. They would fill another one, then drive back home in the small town. A themed lunch would follow, and both of them were looking forward to it...
Fausto
:thumbup:
