Crazy for Carciofi

I’m obsessed with artichokes. Can’t get enough of them. I know I should be thinking temples and statues and Michelangelo, but my main quest so far is for yet another artichoke. Why don’t we grow these smallish, totally tender versions in the States? Here, artichokes abound in various seasonal versions, from  round grapefruit-sized ones to tiny ones the size and shape of a long-stem rose. Romans do all sorts of wonderful things with them, depending on the season. Right now the choices are carciofi alla Giudica (artichokes Jewish style) and artichokes alla Romana. Giudca-style, they’re deep-fried in olive oil and are tender to the tips. The outer leaves taste like artichoke-flavored potato chips, and the insides are creamy and succulent.  Roman artichokes are boiled with olive oil and served whole with lemon. I put either version right up there with Gulf oysters on the half-shell or a Parkway Bakery shrimp poor-boy.

Now on to matters more traditionally Roman. I hadn’t visited the Protestant Cemetery since my first visit to Rome in 1985 with my dear departed friend, Joy. I wanted to pay homage again to Keats and to thank him for his poetry, which kept me sane during my divorce, and to think about Joy. Keats’s grave is covered in violets, and they were just beginning to bloom.

A big orange cat kept me company.

I love the way cemeteries tell just enough of a story to pique curiosity without satisfying it. For instance, who was this person (an artist?), so well known that all that was needed for an epitaph was a signature?

The cemetery incorporates the city’s ancient Aurelian walls.

All the flowers and plants are real, no plastic.

So far I’ve visited familiar haunts, but today with sunshine and with my feet recovered from those brutal Roman cobblestones, I’m off to the Aventine. Today is election day for the next governing party for Italy. If we think our election was scary, get ready for this one. I hope it turns out like the French elections, with a new Macron for Italy, but it’s scary.

In the meantime, just to prove that I’m not totally morbid, here is a shot of my so-far favorite church in Rome, Santa Maria Trastevere, with its 13th century mosaics

and yesterday’s view toward the Tiber on my way back home.