One of my very first food memories is of radishes.
Grandma, I questioned, Do you really like radishes?
My grandmother was standing over her kitchen sink washing a bunch of radishes. She was lost in thought, looking out the window above the sink at a bird who was merrily chirping nearby. A refreshing breeze fluttered the curtains and brought with it the scents of freshly mown grass, lilac, and earth. It was late spring and we were about to enjoy what was probably our first meal of the season outdoors, in the backyard at my grandparents’ house. I was about six.
I continued. To me, they taste a little like spicy dirt.
She laughed, nodding her head. To me too, but I don’t mind them.
Since then I’ve never asked my grandmother if she actually likes radishes or just sort of tolerates them. I know for myself, despite the numerous healthy things I make myself ingest solely for the sake of health, radishes are still not something I like. Or eat.
But I do like to challenge myself.