Of all God’s many culinary critters
there is none stranger than an artichoke fritter.
The vegetable, by itself, I cannot abide,
when a hostess tries to serve it I run and hide.
It’s too much like work to be enjoyable eating;
you peel, you dip, then you drag it through your teeth.
If I skip a step it’s because I’m cheating,
if you make me clean my plate I begin to seethe.
I might feel differently if I liked the taste
but the flavor reminds me of asparagus waste
that I used to masticate when I was a kid
then hold out to my mom to show her what I did.
“I’m starting to choke, mom,” I’d say through tears,
then she’d relent, hedging her fears.
I might not grow up to be big and stronger,
but at least I’d have a chance to live a little longer.
With artichoke fritters, on the other hand,
I could eat them all day at a roadside stand.
I would gulp them down at a formal dinner
or pronounce them to be a bake-off winner.
I’m not quite sure what works the tranformation
from a side dish that oughta be a breach of the peace
to an hors d‘oeuvre that brings me such great elation,
but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the grease.