Bad-ish Radish

Bad-ish Radish

When Nora's class studied plants, they planted radish seeds. I couldn't figure out why they'd plant radishes as opposed to spinach or beans. I found out when I got my own packet (at Nora's insistence) for our garden. The time from the seed going in the ground to the veggies being harvested was only three weeks, enough time that first graders wouldn't lose interest.

Nora's class also tasted the radishes, and she insisted that she had liked them. With my eyebrows doubtfully raised, one row of radishes went into the garden.

About 24 days later, we harvested these ugly little boogers.

Nora excitedly washed them and cut the greens off. She sat on the couch with a cup of radishes for a snack.

Five minutes and two radishes later, she looked at me sheepishly. "Do I have to eat all of these?"
"No, dear. That's fine," I calmly answered, while inside my head I hissed, "I knew you didn't like them, ya little poop. Now what am I gonna do with all these radishes?"

Bubba and I aren't members of the radish fan club. He was traumatized by a failed recipe I tried. "Braised radishes" has become a family punchline and the litmus test by which we judged all future horrible recipes. "Was it as bad as the radishes?"

The pigs ate most of our radishes. They may not have been the prettiest veg or the tastiest, but their fast production made me feel like a great gardener, at least for one day.


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