A recent article from Mark Bittman http://markbittman.com/radishes-with-olive-oil-and-sea-salt reminded me of my dad. It was the mention of radishes that did it.
My dad passed away 6-years ago, and for the first few years after he died, nearly everything I did, heard or said reminded me of him. That constant sorrow hasn’t knocked me sideways for a few years now. I do, of course, think about him but those thoughts bring smiles nowadays, not tears. I reckon he’s happy about that because my dad and I were as tight as friends could be. We thought alike, laughed at the same things, grumped over the same things, and loved each other endlessly. So when Mark Bittman mentioned radishes in a recent article, all sorts of memories came flooding back of my dad.
Just like Mark, my dad loved a radish. He wanted them hot on his tongue, and straight out of the ground. He’d make a half-hearted attempt to wipe off most of the damp soil clinging to the crisp, red globe with its furry, mint-green leaves. He’d hand me one, and he’d keep one for himself. We were made of sturdy stuff back then; a bit of soil was good for you.
And then he’d pull a small, travel-size salt shaker from his pocket. Salt, spit and radishes. My dad and I would sit on our heels in the middle of the garden for the longest time, spitting on radishes so the salt would stick until he declared that his knees where killing him. He was a postman, and his knees were always a complaint.
So today I remembered my dad. I had a small bowl of radishes straight out of the fridge, thoroughly washed, and neatly trimmed of its furry, mint-green leaves. One tradition held fast though: spit, salt and bite. Delish.
Love you, Dad.