A friend of mine, after many and woful trials with “the greatest plague
of life,” engaged a supercilious young lady who “only hired out in the
best of families as a professed cook.” She arrived in the afternoon,
and was told that tea would be a simple affair—bread-and-butter, cold
meat, cake, and a dish of radishes, which were brought in from the
garden as the order was given. The lady was summoned to the parlor
at that moment, and remarked in leaving—“You can prepare those now,
Bridget.” Awhile later she peeped into the kitchen, attracted by the
odor of hot fat. The frying-pan hissed on the fire, the contents were a
half-pound of butter, and the “professional” stood at the table with a
radish topped and tailed in one hand, a knife in the other. “I’m glad
to see ye,” thus she greeted the intruder. “Is it paled or _on_paled
ye’ll have them radishes? Some of the quality likes ’em fried wid the
skins on—some widout. I thought I’d wait and ask yerself.”
My readers can exercise their own choice in the matter of peeling,
putting the frying out of the question. Wash and lay them in ice-water
so soon as they are gathered. Cut off the tops when your breakfast or
supper is ready, leaving about an inch of the stalks on; scrape off
the skin if you choose, but the red ones are prettier if you do not;
arrange in a tall glass or a round glass saucer, the stalks outside,
the points meeting in the centre; lay cracked ice among them and send
to table. Scrape and quarter the large white ones.
Good radishes are crisp to the teeth, look cool, and taste hot.