Radishes 2/2007

In the poor soil by the foundation was a garden. This garden had a border between the dusty soil and the tufts of stiff grass made of oversized round rocks. For part of the day this garden was overshadowed by a mock orange shrub. The reddish soil was the product of shale and leftover from the time the cellar for the house had been dug. When watered, this parched pitiful plot was dry within a half hour under the hot summer sun. Its location was on the far corner facing the back yard. This was my garden. I was six years old.

My garden grew Four O'clocks and radishes. The flowers were multicolored with fine contrasting lines like the crazed surface of old paint. When they were finished blooming, they curled up like old wads of wet tissue. The radishes had hairy leaves that made the tops of your hands itch if you rubbed up against them. These were coarse and ugly leaves.

Rarely, did my radishes grow to resemble anything like the beautiful rosy globes you see in the market. These were long and narrow, a skinny root anchored to a leafy top. If they did grow a tuber, it was usually riddled with brown rimmed holes created by microscopic white wroms. I sometimes salvaged these nasty orbs by cutting away the bad bits with a butter knife just to claim I could eat them. These were radishes as hot and bitter as horseradish. These were radishes that set your mouth on fire.

As a child I was obssessed with books that had passgaes of food descriptions. I wanted to be Francis the Badger with bread and jam and hard boiled eggs taken to school with special salt shakers. I read and reread passages of Laur Ingall Wilder's apple pies. I imagined myself at every meal I ever read about. In my tome on French cooking, I read about radish and butter tea sandwiches. I grew radishes to eat tea sandwiches. This was my inspiration and the sole reason my garden would have no vegetable. I thought radishes had panache.

As a child my mother would sliced fresh radishes into salads or would serve them sliced in a bowl with cider vinegar and salt and pepper. I suspect radishes and vinegar were something from my mother's childhood in Maine. It is a homely and quick condiment you might find at a bean supper in a local grange hall. It was farmers' food, a quick pickle.

But I was no farm girl and my garden was in a post world war II housing development in suburban Connecticut. I longed for what my six year old sensibilities thought was sophistication. I wanted that loaf of white bread with a fine crumble sliced thinly, spread with sweet butter and sprinkled with sea salt. This desire represented a simple pleasure beyond satisfying basic hunger.

In college I discovered another type of radish, huge white radishes sliced into stews by vegan and macrobiotic friends. Unlovely boiled lumps that tasted like dirt. The taste of overcooked skunk root could only be washed away with a bottle of wine.

When I discovered Korean food I realized other cultures pickled radishes too, like Maine farmers. I began to understand that radishes in farming cultures are used like seasoning, adding a layer of flavor to meals.

Still I prefer the french method of eating a radish. The contrast of hot and sweet , salty and savory appeals to my sensibilites. It symbolizes my approach to life of wanting to experience it fully, bitter and happy, passionate and humble.