While grazing a crudite platter, have you ever wondered what those red and white orbs are that nobody touches? Perhaps you have seen them carved into twee little rosettes and assumed they are some vegetable matter grown for that purpose—an innocuous buffer between the carrot and celery sticks, like a sprig of rosemary. You might be excused for thinking them inedible, or, as has persistently been the rumor of other misunderstood vegetables throughout history, toxic. Well they are none of these things: they are radishes, and when not in the company of ranch dressing and plastic forks, can be delicious.

I have always been vaguely aware of the radish, but it wasn’t until four or five years ago when a farmer at my local market started selling an array of unfamiliar seasonal varieties that I paid closer attention. This fellow—who with his thick beard and deeply weathered skin is rather persuasive in matters of roots and the like—began pushing radish after radish on me and it wash’t long before I was hopelessly hooked, showing up early to secure the ripest bunches and requesting others by name.

The gateway radish was no doubt the delicate and elongated French Breakfast, so named, it is assumed, because some wise innovator long lost to history, decided these were acceptable morning vegetables. What a terrific idea; sliced thinly and anointed with softened salted butter, a more refined start to the day is hard to imagine. Next came Plum Purples, larger than standard with deep fuchsia skin that bleeds dramatically into its paler flesh when bitten. As the weather turned crisp and winter approached, I one day came away with Black Spanish Rounds. With thick, scaled skin and sinus-clearing hotness one could be excused for wondering if radishes are, after all, toxic.

That pungency is common to all radishes, exaggerated in some varieties, toned down or replaced by sweetness in others. Along with a thirst-quenching water content and a vague acidity, this peppery character is really what makes eating raw radishes out-of-hand so thrilling. Of course they can be cooked as well. I have braised them in butter and chicken stock with some success. After an hour they where soft enough to crush onto grilled bread and finish with shaved sheep’s milk cheese.

My favorite preparation, though, dresses up the radish while preserving that desirable raw zip—radish gremolata. If you are unfamiliar with gremolata, it is really any sort of acidic, raw chopped relish or salad meant to contrast with a richer component, say, braised pork. The classic Italian preparation calls for chopped parsley, lemon zest and vinegar. I think the inclusion of radishes and a good vinaigrette works just as well with the added benefit of making a lovely side salad on its own. I haven’t asked, but I imagine my radish dealer would agree.

Scrub the grit from half-a-dozen or so radishes of any size or color. Remove the tops and tails and slice thinly. Add a handful of chopped fresh parsley and a grated lemon or orange. Add vinaigrette and fold until well coated. Serve.

Radish gremolata, awaiting a braised lamb shank.  Or just a fork. — Radish gremolata, awaiting a braised lamb shank. Or just a fork.