As I bite through the turnip that I bought this morning at the farmer's market, I think of my Grandpa Maurice. The flavor floods my mind and heart with memories of my childhood.
He and my grandmother lived in a two-story white house on the highway. They had a huge garden that produced most of the vegetables we ate all summer. My grandfather always got me to try new things, despite my objections. Turnips, radishes, parsnips. He would make parsnip patties and fry them in his electric skillet on the countertop. I remember thinking they were the best thing I'd ever eaten.
My grandfather has been gone for 12 years now, but he is still so vivid in my memory. Today I didn't miss him quite as much, as I remembered how much I like turnips.
I think I'll sign off now and look up a recipe for parsnip patties.
Grandpa, I love you still. Always.