I might be weird for loving radishes as much as I do, but right now I’m obsessed with eating their crunchy goodness with just a splash of olive oil, a spritz of lemon juice, and salt and pepper.
I had an Italian/chef boyfriend once upon a time who would prep radishes the same way only simpler — with only olive oil and pepper — and I can tell you that they’re delicious that way too.
For some reason, the stripped down nature of this treat reminded me of a snack my Dad used to eat — a slice of white bread with mayonnaise and pepper. It was considered a real treat, especially if served with a small glass of buttermilk.
Gross, right? But then I remembered that as kids we’d enjoy cold hot dogs right out of the fridge (fully cooked, of course). Also gross.
My father was born at the beginning of the Depression. In 1929, in fact. I don’t know of anyone in my generation who would slug down buttermilk and go, “Ah.”
Here’s another memory — and I swear on my father’s grave that it’s true.
One year, I might have been six or seven, we were heading down the Taconic Parkway en route to visit family in Woodhaven, New York (which was either Brooklyn or Queens depending on the year of the map), when I began to smell something gross. I crinkled my nose. Was it coming from inside the car? Did anyone else smell it? No and no.
I tried to dismiss it. I’d learned early, I’m sad to say, not to trust myself — especially in the face of opposition. But as we crossed the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, the smell got stronger. I knew we were heading toward it, but still no one else could smell it. How baffling!
Finally, we arrived and spilled out of our Pontiac Tempest. Scrambled up the steps and into Nana’s narrow and dark brownstone. Whoa! Right there on the porch I was hit with the smell. It was moist and animal. Something cooking, then? I followed my father into the kitchen where he lifted the lid of a giant pot on the stove and inhaled with pleasure.
Pigs’ feet.
Pigs’ feet? A delicacy I guess.
I can’t remember if I sampled them or not. I can’t remember if I said a single thing about how off-putting I found the smell. Probably no to both. Given what a treat pigs’ feet were to my father’s family, I’m pretty sure no one would’ve minded me taking a pass.
Dee~ Wow, what foods! My mom (born in 1928) used used to make me mayo and olive (black, chopped) sandwiches on white bread. I ate the olives off and threw the rest away. ha
Years ago, while visiting family in SD, we went to some old main street type place, with trendy restaurants and such…very old brick buildings that used to be pork packing plants. The stench was unbelievable. ugh.
I forgot to buy Olive Oil Friday. Rats.
Olive sandwich actually sounds kind of good.
I hate running out of olive oil! I try to have a bottle and a spare in the house so that doesn’t happen.
I remember Nana eating mayo sandwiches as well as mustard and butter sandwiches. Even as kiddies we knew it was bizarre.
And don’t get me started on pigs feet. So freaking gross. As a teen I would sleep in as late as possible on the rare day off from school or work and I remember many days waking up to the horrific smell of vinegar and pigs feet boiling in the kitchen. My father loved pigs feet too, the only one in our house. I get a lump in my throat thinking about it. 🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮
I like radishes too and will try this simple recipe the next time I get them.
Were the pigs feet considered a treat? I can imagine that stink reaching the second floor. Ugh.
The Mallon adults thought they were treats. Therese too.
The kids and my mom would leave till the stench disappeared (hours later). Dad also ate Limburger cheese. Another awful smell. My mom’s guilty pleasure was liver. Gross too, but lots of old gals like liver. Pigs feet and stinky cheese not so much.
Pickled pigs feet- Gramma up on the second floor…..I don’t remember them smelling bad. I do recall my father laughing about me as a 2 year old going up the stairs and asking his mother= Gizzies, grammy. Gizards. Wow.
Food memories: My Dad, born in Spain in 1905, brought his love of nuts with crusty bread and wine to Americas when he came here to work as a contract shepherd. He was not a sweet eater and every night, his dessert was a glass of wine, a ripped off piece of crusty bread with walnuts folded into the bread and popped into his mouth. I am my Dad’s daughter and I love this as well. I too, am not all that much of a sweet lover, now savory is my thing.
Olive oil was always available and eggs fried in olive oil are scrumptious.
For our version of pigs feet, which we never had and I’ve never eaten, we would go once a year, to our local Basque restaurant for a feast of rocky mountain oysters, (lamb testicles, the dish is also made with bull testicles.)
One year our feast seemed to have more people than usual, a group of well dressed non Spanish or Basque speaking people that we learned had come from San Francisco. This was unusual because this feast was for the locals, shepherds, farmers and other shepherds who came from as far as Nevada and Idaho to attend because besides the food, there was music and dancing. This particular San Francisco group sat at our communal table and right away, their snobbery was so apparent when one of the women turned to another and said how “quaint” this all was but what on earth would we be eating?”
I was 16 and my sister was 14 and my Dad could tell that we were getting upset; he cautioned us in Spanish, to keep quiet, go with the flow…as if! We excused ourselves and went to the bathroom and came up with a plan to deal with the group at the table. We returned, smiled at everyone and proceeded to speak nothing but Spanish. When the platter of rocky mountain oysters was presented, we applauded and licked our lips and my Dad and Mom just about fell out of their chairs. Everyone dug in. (If you have ever eaten at a Basque restaurant, you know that there is an overabundance of delicious, hearty foods and the dishes keep on coming: hearty vegetable soups, potatoes fixed in several ways, bean casseroles as well as garbanzo bean stews with Spanish Chorizo, luscious salads, a never ending basket of crusty bread, and wine in pitchers and in our restaurant, many of the men, my Dad, included, brought their Bota bags. When he lifted it high to let out a stream of wine, I thought the San Francisco women would faint!
But back to the main course: The group earned some points for tucking in but the women had a hard time with the fried rocky mountain oysters, trying to chew, etc. many of them, simply set them aside…So I rose to the occasion and in my best English speaking voice informed them that I was terribly sorry that they could not partake of our most special gastronomic offering but I realized that only the most refined palates could appreciate and enjoy rocky mountain oysters or as they are really know, lambs testicles!
The look of horror on their faces was worth the very long lecture that I received from my Dad and my Mom when we got home. My Mom was mortified by my actions, my sister stood up for me and my Dad, tried to be stern, speaking in a very loud voice in Spanish and fractured English but but I could see how hard it was for my him to not break out in a grin! Nothing comes between us and our family food traditions…
What a scene. It’s got everything. Class. Traditional foodways in a diaspora. Family history and dynamics. Walnuts play a starring role. And bread. Before we even get to the Rocky Mountain oysters. I hope you come through someday and print out your comments, here and elsewhere, and compile them. There’s a memoir for sure.
Was not sure if my comment took so I entered it again, adding the last line…
About to read. I’ll delete the first one. Maybe today I can see what settings if any I can change so people can comment with more ease. Otherwise I suggest signing comments with your name which is what I do on Nancy’s blog because even if I sign in there there’s no guarantee my comment will “take.”
I’m heading right to the market tomorrow for radishes!! They sound like heaven prepared that way. Pass on the pigs’ feet, though.
my dad loved radishes too, freshly sliced dipped in salt ánd he loved white bread: he lived through WOII hunger winter in The Hague and remembers seeing loaves of bread being dropped from the skies towards the end of that war….manna from heaven
memories Dee, memories xXx
it’s me Dee, have no idea why I’ve become anonymous!! Saskia
It might be because I cleared my cache? I don’t know. But I knew it was you!!
Never in my life have I eaten a radish. What does it taste like ?
Seriously? It’s crunchy with varying degree of bite from mildly peppery to somewhat hot. They taste like spring.