I grew radishes and plucked them from the soil in early morning light. They were 'fucia illuminata..' and from that moment.. I was hooked on what grows in the ground. It was an awakening. The sunlight shining on this magic thing that I pulled from the earth was something that I planted from a seed, watered and cultivated. Trapped inside that tiny, pin-head seed was a form beyond comprehension. Perfectly round, this 2 x 3 centimeter ball of pungent juice was captured within crunchy white cellulose walls, intelligently held together by a
This carefully harvested work of art, was carried to the kitchen with other carefully harvested lettuces, whose thin transparent leaves were still wet with morning dew- that naturally occurring moisture that mysteriously appears out of emptiness, as if mother nature spritzed herself.
I had walked around the garden as if in a trance, in anticipation of the next chance meeting with something extraordinary, and found a few ripe cherry tomatoes hiding in a cluster. My father had made a wire fence for them to climb on, and climb they did, but not out of my reach.
I washed them carefully and stood looking at them on my cutting board. I did not want to touch them, but to stare at their beauty in fresh ecstasy. This was the moment for which they grew. The highest expression of their essential nutrients were being offered up in sacrificial display. I felt humbled. I knew I was to honor them by gently tearing the lettuce into manageable pieces to fit in my mouth. The radishes were begging me to slice into them, aching to expose their lily white
I prepared the table; the place where public and private conversations merge over the act of eating. Wanting to eat only with my hands, I put down a napkin and some toothsome bread. I sat down and closed my eyes. I gave quiet peaceful thanks for the gift in front of me. Words escaped me, yet the feeling of gratitude was tangible and radiated out in a 360 degree radius as far as the garden.
With clean hands, I picked up my first piece of lettuce, fit it sweetly into my mouth and licked my fingers. Skin picks up the subtle nuance of flavors, unlike a fork. Salty, sweet, pungent, bitter melodies played on my tongue in pure delight. I heard them. I tasted them. I celebrated them. And the concert went on. There was no separation between my mineral content and theirs. I was made of this.
I cleaned the bowl with my toothsome bread and left not a trace.
I sat for a moment, stunned, when it was over. No encore was necessary.
I was thoroughly touched, satiated with the music of simple, earthy, life giving vegetable virtuosi.
Peggy Markel
1 comment:
Peggy my mother would make radish and butter sandwiches on rye when I was young. I love the taste, Give it a try, very simple. Mick Wilz
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