Tuesday, November 4, 2014

where radishes take me back to France...


There is nothing like greens picked fresh from the garden. I've been harvesting baby radishes to thin out the plantings. Zing! That pop of red against the spring green of the leaves and the flavour is just out of this world. 

It makes me think of my neighbours in St Laurent de Cerdans and the way they'd dip their radishes into butter and salt. How Pierre would only eat them if they'd been picked fresh from the garden that day. Most of those folks have passed now. I was the youngest fulltime resident of the Quartier by a good thirty years. Our Quartier was at the very edge of the village and they used to holler for me if they found a snake or a scorpion in the house that needed relocating. In return they would let me come on mushroom hunting missions in the woods. People's favourite mushroom hunting spots were zealously guarded secrets passed down through generations so I always felt honoured when I was asked to come along. I think it had something to do with my dogs chasing off any wild pigs too. And a fearless attitude to snakes probably helped my case. We'd come home with baskets full of cep, girolles and my favourite, parasol mushrooms. Fried in olive oil with a touch of sea salt. Bliss.

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