Jerusalem artichokes are the poor man’s sunflowers. The bright yellow blossoms at the end of their stalks, though large compared to most wildflowers, are only about a quarter the size of their larger, Western cousins. But what they lack in size they make up for in height and elegance. Most of the stalks are eight-to-ten feet high.
They possess a kind of elongated elegance, bending, waving and nodding in the slightest breeze like expansive, delicate mobiles. This time of the year their broad, spear-shaped leaves are coated with a thin, white powdery substance, like talcum powder dusted onto a bare arm.
Jerusalem artichoke – scientific name Helianthus tuberosa – is said to be the only root plant of economic importance that originated in North America. Its small tubers, which resemble ginger roots, can be grated into an edible flour that contains inulin, a valuable source of fructose for diabetics, and it has also recently been studied as an important potential source of ethanol.
But more fascinating to me than its culinary virtues or commercial value is its odd name: Jerusalem artichoke. The name refers to its thin, crooked tubers, though the plant did not originate in Jerusalem, nor, as far as I can tell, does it bear any resemblance, in appearance or origin, to the common commercial artichoke. I went to my trusty American Heritage Dictionary, the best source I know of for word origins. The artichoke part, I confess, remains a mystery, but the first part of the plant’s name is an interesting example of folk etymology. “Jerusalem,” it turn out, is a British corruption of its Italian name, girasole. (The Italians, presumably, were the first Europeans to use the plant for cooking.) Girasole, in turn, comes from the Latin root girare sol, meaning “to turn to the sun” – in other words, a sunflower. The small, sun-like flowers beamed through the window at me as if to say, “Well, what did you expect?”
