If you have been reading my blog for awhile, or even if it is your first time stumbling upon it, you may have wondered What’s with the name Rebecca Radish?
Well, here’s the thing.
Radishes aren’t like my favorite food (don’t get me wrong, I do love them). But they have always been a food I feel deeply connected to.
One of my very earliest memories in life is of helping a kind, elderly neighbor lady (I think her name was Barbara) harvest radishes from her little garden. I remember my amazement at the tiny effort it took to pluck the perfectly spherical, hot reddish-pink root by it’s tender green leaves from the dark, rich soil. The surprising spicy, crunchy, juicy burst of flavor I tasted after Barbara rinsed off the radish with a hose and I tried it right there in the garden, when all I could smell was the earthy, constantly muddy soil from the perpetual Seattle rain.
A radish is a beautiful metaphor. For me. For writing. For living in general. Spicy, crunchy, juicy goodness, just barely buried in the darkness, waiting to be brought to the surface to be admired and enjoyed by the one who sought it. I could go on and on… but for now this will suffice. You get it, right?
Also, Alliteration was definitely a factor. “Rebecca Radish” has a nice ring to it, no?