A strange creature, this green handful; both sceptre and orb, torch and weapon. A soft-pricked beast with thick stalk.
First, snip the points and tips. Steam for one hour. Pull the leaves. Each is a bite to dip in butter and lemon; each a mouthful barely tasted. Eventually, you’ll reveal the choke: a curious plug of fibre, as though the thing is furred on the inside. Pull this away, too.
What you have left over is the heart. Take a bite. It tastes of an empty grass field, a day that won’t rain, a lover that won’t meet your eye.