Radishes. I love radishes. Well, raw radishes. I’ve never eaten them any other way. (Is there any other way?)
My Grandpa George always had a huge garden. He grew red radishes and white icicle rashes specifically for me (c. 1960-73).
He taught me how to pinch with my thumb and pointer finger just under the dirt at the top of a radish to gauge the size-readiness without disturbing the growing cycle. When radishes were ready, we’d pull, clean, and them right there in the garden. I loved the sharp, hot ‘bite’ in that first crunch. Add a sprinkle of salt, and they were even hotter. The flavor of a ‘store-bought’ radish can’t compare to the memories I have of the strong flavor of a radish from my grandpa’s garden.
When we bought radishes at the store, it was my chore to cut them from the bunch and clean them. I was always careful to preserve the rubber band that held a bunch of radishes together. Back then, the rubber bands were thin and either blue or red. We practically hoarded those rubber bands.
So yesterday, when I was cleaning two bunches of radishes I’d purchased at the grocery store, I cut around the blue rubber band that is considerably thicker and stronger than the ones from my childhood. With a kind of reverence for my childhood and my grandpa’s garden-grown radishes, I put the rubber bands in my rubber band bag.
It was a good memory.
Until next time,
writing through history one romance upon a time