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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Today was a day to pull up the leafier radish plants. Tonight the temperature dips down to zero, and the last frost withered some of the other radish leaves to crisps. Crisps are British chips. But here you have curled leaves ready to crumble into grey-green dust.
So my aim was to get the still-fresh ones inside. Inside the building and then bellies.
Chopped radish leaves followed chopped onions into Dad's cast-iron frying pan. Then six eggs. Slices of cheddar and swiss cheese. Dried basil, curry, salt. Mix and pat down, let it sit a bit to omelet.
Serves four, and while eating, you can talk excitedly about Gilbert and Sullivan because the program from last year's performance is beside you and you're on a bit of a caffeine high. This person in the picture from last year, I know her! Yay! I_joined_a_band_of_musical_pirates! (This part is optional or optimal.)
The roots, the heart of it all, went into some for-tomorrow coleslaw. A few for Dad to eat whole because he likes them. But this chopping process was slow.
("Slow and bulbous," I thought to write, and then, "I swear Captain Beefheart sounds like a radish variety. But why? Because of beefsteak tomatoes?")
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