How to Grow Radishes

radishes-in-the-groundI can almost remember the first time I ate a radish.

It was well back in the 70’s and apart from the groovy body shirts and flares, I thought I was all that with the modern cuisine.

I can’t remember where I was exactly, maybe I’ve blocked that out, but I can recall that plastic tray being handed around with that omnipresent bowl of French Onion Dip in the centre. Batons of carrot and celery fanned outwards, Jatz crackers lay neatly like a fallen tower and the strange things called radishes were cut into quarters, wobbling away waiting for the unsuspecting drunk teenager to try one out.

After a few stolen Flag Ale’s and maybe a Resch’s Pilsener I took, what did look quite enticing, in hand, plunged it into whatever was in the dip and chomped on down.

French Breakfast Radishes.
French Breakfast Radishes

At first I thought ‘Wow, that’s so crunchy and delicious,’ but then it hit me. My tender 1970’s palate was being assaulted by an army of ants; ants that had walked across a mile of chillies, then dipped themselves in acid before being crushed and smeared across my tongue.

I hated that radish so much that I had no option but to drink some KB that came in a keg shaped can, yes folks, it was that bad.

I’m a big boy now though, and according to my scales, getting bigger, so it’s time to bury the hatchet and dedicate a few small square metres, okay maybe just one square metre, to growing radishes.

For no other reason than I live in Millthorpe, where for some reason every business thinks that they’re French, I’m going to plant some French Breakfast radishes.

Radishes grow ridiculously quickly and not only can you eat the radish, you can eat their leaves as well. They are quite forgiving of your soil but avoid too much nitrogen if you’re looking for a decent bulb.

Winter radishes, because of their slower growth, are much more pungent than the summer ones. There is one that I do like the name of though. It’s called Munchener Bier. Obviously some clever German has discovered the calming effect that beer has on a scorched palate.

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Article by: Mark Logan

Former photojournalist at the CWD, Mark Logan has mixed together his love of technology with his years of experience as a journalist and photographer to develop the Orange Post. The Orange Post is his baby. A baby whose gestation involved countless ideas, numerous bouts of indecision, an infinite number of hours cursing free software and more than one bottle of wine. Whilst he's not trying to cajole people into writing for the Orange Post, he's attempting to sharpen his vegetable gardening skills. He lives in a strangely shaped house in Millthorpe, loves ignoring recipe directions, dabbles in web design for fun, frustration and profit and is constantly in a battle of the wills with his dog Fergus