05/17/2026
Ode to Cardoon:
O Cardoon, thorned brother of the artichoke,
Child of Southern Europe and the cool sea winds,
You arrived in the high tunnel like an old-world immigrant,
Promising strange flavors and botanical curiosity.
Among the few thistles welcomed to the table,
You stood proudly—
Not a w**d, but a vegetable,
A musk thistle redeemed by olive oil and patience.
The first year you behaved honorably,
As biennials have done for centuries.
You unfurled monstrous silver-green leaves,
Wild as medieval heraldry,
And thick stalks that begged the knife and peeler alike.
Your flavor was worth the trouble.
Artichoke-like, yes—
But rougher around the edges,
A little more work for a little more story.
One had to strip away the strings,
Pare back the armor,
And reveal the tender heart beneath the thistle.
But you were no lover of heat.
Summer turned your flesh bitter,
As though the Mediterranean soul within you
Could not forgive a Dakota July.
You belonged instead to the cool margins of the year:
Early spring, late autumn,
Or winter gardens where frost speaks softly.
Still, you prospered.
You overwintered.
You sent up pups from the soil with confidence,
As if you had finally decided
The high tunnel might indeed be home.
Then came the second year.
No longer content to crouch among the beds,
You rose.
Towering, outrageous, absurd in scale.
Flower stalks climbing skyward like siege engines,
Your once-edible stems transformed
Into bitter fiber and defiance.
The gardener looked upon you and knew:
This could not continue.
For all your beauty,
The market had little room for you.
No crowds gather for cardoon.
No child begs for braised thistle stalks at supper.
You were never destined to be a profitable crop,
Only an interesting one.
And perhaps that is enough.
For what a strange privilege it was
To know the brother of the artichoke,
To watch a European thistle
Stretch itself against South Dakota seasons,
And for two brief years
Occupy a corner of the tunnel
Like some spiny relic of the old world.
