Washing and trimming a perfect bouquet of radishes to throw into my salad the other day, I was overwhelmed by a sense memory. Maybe I was five or six, watching my Dad at the kitchen table, slicing fat radishes in half, dipping them into a plate of salt, and popping them into his mouth.
The bright red and pure white of the radishes, the sound of the crunch, the tactile pleasure of dipping into the salt - I had to try it.
“Can I have one?”
The blast of pungent radish and sharp saltiness almost knocked me over. I didn’t eat radishes for a long time after that.
Now, I’m ready for it. I got out a plate, threw some salt on it, dipped, and crunched.
Thank you, Dad.