Of all the root crops known to humankind – and I’m including rutabagas and cattail rhizomes here – my favorite is the humble radish.
Radishes are a good source of vitamin C, minerals, and bad breath. But their benefits don’t end there. They don’t even begin there.
Radishes also provide a fast and easy win for the home gardener. Under the right conditions, radish seeds can sprout in as little as a few days. A couple of weeks later you can be munching on the subterranean fruits of your labor.
This quick reward is key if you’re trying to get a child interested in gardening. Or if you’re simply an impatient person like me.
One spring I managed to procure a packet of watermelon radish seeds. I planted them and they seemed to grow normally. When I sliced open one of the bulbous roots, its appearance was remarkably similar to that of a watermelon.
When you think “watermelon,” you probably envision something sweet, cool, and soothing. This is not the case with watermelon radishes. My overall perception of them was “hot enough to melt titanium.” They are not for the faint of stomach.
I recall, as a kid, strolling out to our family’s garden and plucking radishes from the rich, black soil. Soil that had been enhanced earlier that spring with a liberal application of dairy cow manure.
I would remove most of the dirt from the little red sphere by wiping it on my jeans. After trimming off the stem and the taproot with my pocketknife, I would pop the fresh, crisp radish into my mouth. I probably sounded like Bugs Bunny when he was eating a carrot. I’m guessing that my gut biome was nearly identical to that of our Holstein cows.
One spring when I was in my early teens, our family was invited to an aunt and uncle’s house in Canby, Minnesota for a graduation celebration. This Gopher State town is located a little over an hour from our farm.
Grandpa Nelson asked if I could drive him and Grandma, in their ancient Ford Fairlane, to Delores and Bud’s house. I was eager for any excuse to drive so I immediately replied, “Yeah, sure, you betcha!”
On the appointed Sunday I went to Grandpa’s house and calmly took the wheel of his car. I was secretly terrified that I would stall the asthmatic old Ford as I wrestled with its “three on the tree” transmission. Grandma got into the back seat and Grandpa took the shotgun position.
I’d never been to Canby and didn’t know how to get there but that didn’t faze Grandpa. He seemed to know exactly where to go, saying, “Turn north here” or “Go east on this road.”
As we approached the outskirts of Ivanhoe, Minnesota, Grandpa commented, seemingly apropos of nothing, “There are a lot of Polish people in Ivanhoe.”
I didn’t know how Grandpa knew so much about the area. Years later I learned that during the 1930s, Grandpa and Grandma and their young family had been rendered economic refugees by the Great Depression. They had to live for a time with our Johnson kin at Minneota, Minnesota, located just a short distance from Canby. Delores was born during Grandpa and Grandma’s sojourn in Minneota.
We stopped at a Highway 75 intersection and Grandpa instructed me to turn north. I saw a car approaching from the south and hesitated, my stomach churning with worry about stalling the engine. But Grandpa said that I should go, casually muttering, “He’s got brakes.”
The other driver did, and we arrived at Delores and Bud’s house safely and on time. Grandpa must have been feeling peckish because he immediately went to the kitchen, grabbed a piece of bread, buttered it liberally and packed it with fresh, crisp radish slices.
I followed suit and found that a radish sandwich can be surprisingly tasty and invigorating, especially when it’s enhanced with a generous application of salt. You never know what you might learn when you hang out with an old guy.
Every spring, I plant a row of radishes. I prefer the kind that are ruby-red, round, and mild.
There are few things more satisfying than plucking a scarlet sphere from the earth, washing it off under the tap, salting it thoroughly and popping it into your mouth. It’s literally moments from soil to savoring.
For more than forty years, my wife and I have lived in the farmhouse that Grandpa and Grandma Nelson built. I can’t help but think that Grandpa also picked and ate garden-fresh radishes, somehow knowing that they contained important nutrients and refreshing his supply of bad breath.
Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.
