A new radish keeper

I can't stay for long today. I'm in Maine, sitting on my parents' couch. It's hot and sunny and beautiful, and Fisher's on his bed at my feet, filling the whole room with the smell of wet dog. He just went for a swim at Simpson's Point (the rest of us hardly got our toes in!) and in a little while, we're going to put a batch of pulled pork in the oven for my sister's birthday dinner. But I wanted to stop by, quickly, and remind you about the radishes.

I don't know if you took me up on any of those recommendations a few weeks back, but it's been a radish kind of spring around here. While the sun and the berries and the summer fruits take their sweet time, we've been experimenting with the cold weather crops all kinds of ways. The other day, I added a new radish keeper to my list: radishes washed, greens trimmed, and then greens and roots sautéed.

SAUTEED RADISH SALAD

In the summer, I make a lot of sautés for lunch—usually heavy on the greens, sort of like warm green salads. Recently, I’ve been using radishes—greens and all. If you have extra radish greens (or other braising greens) kicking around, feel free to add them. The greens wilt down pretty significantly, so it’s hard to add too many. This recipe serves two.

2 bunches radishes, with greens

2 slices bacon

4 cloves garlic, minced

a handful of crumbled blue or gorgonzola cheese (I like to use the mozzarella with the gorgonzola dolce inside that Kathleen Kadlik sells at the Provincetown and Falmouth farmers' markets)

olive oil

two slices of rustic bread

1/2 lemon, cut into wedges

Trim the greens from the radishes, leaving about an inch of stem still attached to the bulbs. Wash and dry the greens and set aside. Scrub the radishes, trim their tails, and cut each one in half the long way. Set aside.

Warm up a cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Add the bacon and fry for a few minutes on each side, until it’s done to your taste (I like mine crispy enough to crumble). Transfer the bacon to a plate to cool.

Add the radishes to the pan with the bacon grease and cook for 5-6 minutes over medium heat. When the radishes are soft and a little bit golden in spots, turn the heat down to low and add the garlic. (Add olive oil or a splash of water to the pan at any point if you feel you don’t have enough grease.) Stir well and throw in the greens. Stir again and cover immediately. Cook for a minute, then take off the lid and stir well. The greens should be just wilted.

Transfer the radishes and greens to two bowls. Crumble a slice of bacon over each, and sprinkle half of the cheese over each salad. Turn the heat back up to medium high under the cast-iron skillet, and fry the bread in olive oil until it’s golden brown on both sides. Either cut the bread into cubes and throw it on top of the greens or serve alongside as a slice. Garnish each bowl with a few lemon wedges, and squeeze the juice over top to taste.

The Local Food Report: radish recipes

Radishes. They're tempting, right? It's not just me? They sit there at the farmers' market all pink and blushing and suddenly there are three bunches on your kitchen counter and you have no idea what to do with them. Because while radishes are nice in salads and just for snacking, plain, that's not going to take care of three bunches in a week, not to mention the greens.

I figured farmers probably have this same problem except even worse, so last week, I decided to ask them what they do. I got all kinds of answers—everyone said they snacked on them, raw, straight from the garden, and sliced up fresh over salads—but I got some new ideas, too. Here are the best ones, I think—from the farmers' at the Orleans market, to me, to you:

1. Oven-roasted radishes

This comes from Kristen Watkins, who with her boyfriend Lucas Dinwiddie runs Halcyon Farm in Brewster. They grow French Breakfast radishes, and a few weeks ago, looking for inspiration, they decided to roast them in the oven, the way you would potatoes. They scrubbed them, then trimmed the greens so there were a few little stems still on, the way you sometimes see fancy restaurants do with small carrots. Then they sliced them in half, tossed them with olive oil and lemon juice and a little bit of salt and pepper, and roasted them on 400 degrees F for 10 or 15 minutes. Kristen says the roasting changed their texture—made them soft and juicy and a little bit crispy around the edges—and also made them sweet.

2. Radish pasta salad

This is Darnell Caffoni's recipe, from Boxwood Gardens in Orleans. She's a big fan of cold summer pasta salads, and one with chopped spring radishes and carrots, torn up salad greens, a few slivers of hard-boiled egg, and a Greek or Italian style dressing is her favorite. Just be sure to get the radishes this time of year, she says, while they're still young—later in the season they'll get kind of pithy, and won't be so mild.

3. Sautéed radish greens

Every farmer I talked with agreed you should save the greens. Like turnip greens, they're super healthy and also super tasty. Ron Backer likes his sautéed in olive oil with a little bit of spring garlic and asparagus—yum! I'd add an egg over easy and a slice of toast and sit down to breakfast.

4. Radish greens in pasta

Kristen Watkins says that her favorite thing to do with the greens is chop them up and toss them into hot pasta to wilt, the way you would with basil or arugula. She especially likes doing this with a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, grated Parmesan, and a little bit of salt and pepper.

The other night, I tried two of these ideas. I grabbed two bunches of radishes—one French Breakfast and one Easter Egg—and cut off the greens. I set the greens aside, then scrubbed the radishes and chopped them in half. I tossed the radishes in a roasting pan with a diced onion and a little bit of olive oil and some fresh rosemary, and put them in the oven on 400. Then I boiled a pot of whole-wheat rotini and cooked a few slices of bacon. When the bacon was done, I sautéed the radish greens in the grease with a little bit of minced garlic, and grated a handful of cheddar cheese. Finally, I threw the whole mess together—hot pasta, grated cheese, crumbled bacon, and garlic-spiced radish greens. By the time we'd gotten out forks and water glasses and plates, the roasted radishes were done too, and we sat down to a whole radish meal—and ate our way from tops to tails. It was easy, new, and delicious to boot.

Satisfying, and beautiful

Hi! I tried to stop in here on Friday, but Blogger was having some kind of meltdown, so I couldn't. I wanted to tell you that the first farmers' market of the season was Saturday morning at eight o'clock sharp in Orleans, and that I was looking forward to seeing you there. I hope you made it.

If you didn't, though, don't worry. Barbara and Gretel and Lucas and the gang will be there every week from now on, and the Provincetown market starts this Saturday. There's also a new farmers' market on the block, starting up this Wednesday at the brand-spanking-new Preservation Hall in Wellfleet. I'm not quite sure who will be there yet, but I'm planning on going, and I promise to report back. It is so nice to have a fridge full of local greens and spring carrots and hothouse tomatoes (!) and cucumbers (!) and Ron Backer's asparagus. Finally! It makes me a little giddy.

It is also a good reminder that there are, believe it or not, other food groups besides rhubarb & Meyer lemon desserts. Between the rhubarb pie testing my mother and I have been doing, and last week's attempt at this Shaker Lemon Pie, and the rhubarb-lemon cobbler we talked about two weeks ago, I find it hard to fathom, but according to the Little Caesar lettuces and the French Breakfast radishes, it's true.

And I have to say, it feels pretty good to step back into the salad world. Yesterday, Alex and I had one of those hugely productive Sundays—tidied up, did the laundry, finished the house budget, picked out paint colors, planted squash, planted melons, planted tomatoes, went to the dump, scrubbed the guest room!—and mid-day, we stopped for a quick rest at the kitchen table. We didn't have time for a long break—there were still way too many spiders living in the baseboards—but I wanted to make something a little bit elegant, something pretty and simple.

I pulled out a nice china salad bowl, and three bags of greens from the fridge. I did a little mix-and-match—some of Barbara's butter lettuce, a handful of spicy mustard Mizuna from Rod and Darnell, and a whole bunch of Lucas's baby braising mix. Then I chopped up a tomato, sliced a carrot and cucumber and two radishes thin with the mandolin, and crumbled some goat cheese and gorgonzola on top. It was hardly fancy, but it was satisfying, and beautiful, and with a few slices of baguette and butter, it did the trick.

If you're feeling anything like I am these days—hungry, and busy, and a little too interested in gardening to sit down and make anything terribly fussy or complicated—I highly recommend giving it a whirl.

FIRST OF SPRING TOSSED SALAD

This is hardly complicated enough to count as a recipe, but it's what we've been eating all week, and it's also delicious. Tomatoes and cucumbers are not normally things I associate with spring, but with Ed and Betty's hothouse in full operation, maybe they'll move up permanently on the calendar—keep your fingers crossed, and who knows.

1/8 cup balsamic vinegar

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1/2 teaspoon whole grain mustard

a pinch of salt

freshly cracked pepper

1/2 pound mixed spring greens

1 spring carrot, trimmed and sliced thin

2 French Breakfast radishes, trimmed and sliced thin

1 tomato, chopped into half wedges

1/2 cucumber, sliced thin

a handful of crumbled gorgonzola

a handful of crumbled chevre

Whisk together the balsamic, olive oil, mustard, and salt and pepper to taste in a small pitcher. Be sure to whisk for at least 30 seconds; it takes the mustard a little while to bring the vinegar and oil together and get the whole thing to emulsify. Set the dressing aside.

In a large salad bowl, toss together the greens and other vegetables. Crumble the cheeses on top, dress, and toss well. Serve at once, with a hunk of crusty bread to mop up the extra cheese and dressing and veggie juice.

To the radishes, first of spring

Sometimes, I don't know quite what to do—with you. You are always the first to the markets; you show up all pink and fresh and new, beguiling in your white-pink-green candy-cane suits. I pick you up and bring you home—thrilled, delighted with my haul—and then, like a new parent (I imagine, that is), I look at you beaming and proud and in love, but a little bit bewildered, too.

I like you on toast, I know that—shaved and crisp, layered with baguette and cold ribbons of butter, flakes of sea salt. You are fine on salads, although I miss you sometimes caught up a in crouton-pickled-beet-crumbled-cheese bite. Still you are there, present, bright. And then the ideas end. Radishes? Thank goodness for the Internet.

I find you online, cut into matchsticks, tossed with vinegar and oil and chives and salt, served over a warm spring risotto of Pecorino and rice. I leave you in and change the Arborio out; barley, I've heard, can make just as creamy and rich a pot. The barley from our CSA is not quite right—hulled, not pearled—but with a strong and patient arm, it lets go eventually. I stir in cheese, herbs, lemon juice, and then it's your turn. I serve myself a bowl, and sprinkle you on top.

We sit down to the table: you fresh and pink and new, and me hungry, grateful, ready to spoon you up.

BARLEY RISOTTO WITH SPRING RADISHES

This recipe is the product of three inspirations. The radish dressing was inspired by a recipe for Romano Risotto with Radishes from Gourmet, September 2009. The most recent issue of Cook's Illustrated provided the method (Almost Hands Free Risotto), and the idea to substitute barley for Arborio rice came from a 2007 101 Cookbooks post on Meyer Lemon Risotto made with pearled barley. Since the barley from our grain CSA is only hulled, not pearled, I wasn't sure it would cream up the way it should, but I decided to try anyway. The result was a little more stirring than I'd bargained for, but well worth the work. If you use pearled barley, your barley should soften faster and you'll be able to cut down on the stirring time at the end.

The nice thing about this recipe is that although it does require some legwork at the beginning and end, it gives you a solid 30-minute break in the middle to get the kitchen all cleaned up and the table set. That way, when the risotto finally is ready, you can sit right down to eat.

for the barley risotto:
5 cups low-sodium chicken stock
1 and 1/2 cups water
4 tablespoons butter, divided
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups barley, hulled or pearled (see headnote)
1 cup dry white wine
1 cup coarsely grated Pecorino, Piave, or Parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon lemon juice

for the dressed radishes:
1 pound trimmed radishes, cut into matchsticks
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
1 tablespoon finely chopped chives
optional: torn basil

Combine the stock and water in a large pot and bring to a boil over high heat. Cover and turn the heat down to a simmer.

Warm up half the butter in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. When it's melted, add the onion and salt. Sauté, stirring frequently, for 3-5 minutes, or until the onions are softened but not browned. Add the garlic and sauté, stirring constantly, for about 30 seconds, or until it starts to get fragrant. Pour in the barley and cook, stirring frequently, for 3 minutes.

Pour in the wine and cook, stirring constantly, until it is all absorbed. This should take about 3 minutes. Pour in 5 cups of the hot broth and water mixture and turn the heat down to medium-low. Cover, set your timer for 40 minutes, and—stirring every ten minutes or so—simmer until almost all the liquid has been absorbed and the barley is just al dente.

Add another 3/4 cup of the hot broth and water mixture and stir until almost all the liquid has been absorbed, about 10 minutes. The barley should be starting to get creamy. Add the remaining 3/4 cup liquid and cook, stirring constantly, for another 10 minutes, or until all the liquid is absorbed and the barley is cooked through and creamy. Turn off the heat, stir in the cheese, cover, and let sit for 5 minutes.

Stir in the remaining 2 tablespoons butter and the lemon juice, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot, with the dressed radishes on top.

Note: To reheat this risotto on the stove top, simply put it in a heavy-bottomed pot with a splash of milk or cream.

The Local Food Report: the first farmers' market

This week, I went to the farmers' market. I'm going to type that again, because I'm still pinching myself, trying to figure out whether or not it's really true.

This week, I went to the farmers' market. Phew!


I have been waiting for this day for months, every month, in fact, since last October, when the farmers' markets in Orleans and Provincetown and Hyannis and everywhere else on this sandy strip shut their doors. They simply put down their tent flaps and left—a terrible thing for a friend to do anytime, but in the gray, cold, rainy months in particular.

I went to a few markets in other states while they were gone—a winter market in my hometown of Brunswick, Maine, and the huge year-round market in Providence, Rhode Island. They were both exciting, but not the same. I couldn't wake up bleary-eyed, throw on my jeans, and run out the door. Julie wasn't there, and neither was Gretel, or Claire or Darnell or Tim. I didn't know anyone's name, or what they usually had for sale—they could've just gotten a crazy new hair cut and stopped growing radishes and decided to be a lobsterman, and I'd never have known.

The Orleans market, on the other hand, is like one of those friends you've always known—warm and smart and inviting—the kind that you can read like a book. It has 21 vendors, all from the Outer Cape, selling everything from rhubarb to radishes to asparagus to greens. They have muffins, too, and other baked goods, and live lobster and shiitake mushrooms and flower bouquets. This week, they had seedlings—things like celeriac and strawberries and mesclun mix and 150 different varieties of tomatoes. Now that's what I call a friend.

This first week, I did more catching up than shopping, but I still brought a full bag of veggies home. I tucked away a bunch of French Breakfast radishes, a bundle of scallions, three leeks, a dozen eggs, a pint of cherry tomatoes (from the E & T Farms greenhouse!), and a flowering currant plant for a friend. All in all, a pretty good haul.


Other markets will be opening up soon—in Provincetown and Hyannis, on the islands, and up Cape. There's a full list here. So keep your eyes peeled for those rows of white tents, and just as soon as you can, pick up the makings for the salad below. It's the best I've had since October.

SALAD OF SPRING GREENS, RADISHES, AND SCALLIONS

I mixed the radishes greens from the bunch above with spinach, butter lettuce, Italian dandelion, and tat soi from my garden to make a spring salad mix. Look for very young radishes if you plan to use the greens; the bigger they get the more fuzz they have on their skin, and they also tend to acquire a more bitter taste. This recipe makes enough salad for roughly four.

for the salad:
1 pound spring greens
1 bunch French breakfast radishes, sliced into thin half moons
2 scallions, thinly sliced

for the dressing:
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons wine vinegar (slightly sweet is nice)
5 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons mayonnaise (preferably homemade)

Wash and dry the greens and toss with radishes and scallions. On a cutting board, mash together garlic and salt with a fork. Scrape into a small jar and shake together with vinegar, olive oil, and mayonnaise until well mixed. Pour dressing over greens and toss well.

Mornings like this

Some mornings start too early, with too little milk, and too far away from home. For instance, this morning. By 4:34 am I had already shampooed my hair, checked my bag, and made it through security to Gate A7 at Boston Logan. Some people, I understand, do things like this routinely, but I am not one of them. Nor do I ever hope to be.

No.

Instead, mornings like this make me wish I could still be at home, asleep, waking up in a few hours to red and yellow tulips and a breakfast spread like the one above. Because that blackened baguette you see up there? That is a very good thing.

It’s a French thing, one that I’d heard my father talk about once or twice—but one that I’d never dreamed of making until we grew a crop of very spicy radishes this spring. They’re black radishes, nero tondo or gros noir d'hiver, from 16th century Europe, and they grow crazy fast. We have to eat at least two a day, otherwise the leaves will completely overshadow the row of scallions next door, and we might never see the spinach again. We bring them in, shower them, and scrub their skins clean. Then, I peel them off, because the other day I figured out that the skin is where the spice lives.

When it comes to radishes, I am no fan of spice.

Actually, if we're being honest, I don’t really love any radishes, spice or not. I like them alright, in a salad or a stir-fry, but for the most part, I don't think they add much. They kind of disappear between the butter lettuce and the dressing without giving even a passing kick.

But that spread above—radishes on toast? It changes all that. Or rather, I should say, very thinly sliced radishes and salted butter and sea salt on toast that is slightly burnt and still warm. The change has everything to do with the details.

For starters, the toast needs to be a little bit black. I burnt it accidentally the first time I made this, but then when I got to the end, to the tiny section of the loaf that was only golden brown, I realized it had been a serendipitous mistake. The butter tastes sweeter on slightly burnt toast, and the radishes do, too. With a sprinkling of salt, the whole thing melds together. The radishes get so bendy they nearly blend in with the butter, the toast stays stiff underneath, and the salt bring the whole thing alive.

It's the kind of breakfast that makes you want to dance around the room. But since I only have 13 minutes more of paid time on Cleaveland International's wireless at&t, I'm not going to stick around for that.

I'll see you Thursday, and you'll just have to let me know how it went.


NERO TONDO ON TOAST

The variety of radishes I used for this, nero tondo, is very spicy. If you're going to buy yours at the farmers' market or grow them yourself, I think I would stick with a pink variety—one that is more delicate, with a little less kick. French breakfast would be nice, or the ones that they call Easter eggs.

half a baguette, sliced in half horizontally and then cut in half again
6 or 7 large radishes, sliced very thin
butter, for shaving
sea salt to taste

Toast the baguette until it is just a little bit black. Shave as much butter as you feel is right over the warm toast in long peels. Layer with radishes, and sprinkle sea salt over top. Eat warm, with a cup of creamy coffee or sweet black tea.

By your hair

Sometimes I've wondered what it's like to be a vegetable that comes up by your hair. Can you see the hands when they're coming? Is the moment of picking precipitated by terrible dread?

I know I probably shouldn't admit this, but these are the sorts of dilemmas I like to mull over in the garden as I weed.

I went out to the cold frame to weed yesterday—believe it or not, (yes!) there are weeds—and found myself wondering over this as I contemplated pulling a radish. I gauged the size of the greens—nearly a foot high, and leafy. They looked full-bodied enough, though I knew there was

 likely to be little in the soil beneath. But I was curious, and so I pulled and was delighted with the little root I found.

This first root was a small radish—a very small radish, to tell the truth. But it wasn't so small as those wisps of carrots you sometimes pull; it had, at the very least, some girth. I took it inside and washed it down, pulled the dirt and snarls from its toes. I yanked off its hair in one swift grip, and scrubbed it down to a nice white coat.

I'd picked some greens outside too, and a pair of purple scallions, and discovered that between the three we had the makings for a salad. I washed the lettuce carefully, mixing a four season red with leafy green, sorrel, and mache. They were baby greens, roughly the length of my fingers, but they had plenty of flavor and good color. Next went the scallions, sliced into tiny, ringlet bites.

Finally, it came time for the radish. I cut off its roots and then its hair, and the body I chopped into slivers. A distinctly fresh smell filled the kitchen, an earthy scent with an air of minerals about it. I threw the tiny slices into the salad, crumbled a bit of goat cheese on top, and dressed it with salt and pepper and a bit of vinaigrette. Greek olives topped it off, and on this second to last day of the year, we sat down to eat our very own green salad.

YEAR'S END SALAD

Serves 2

2 cups mixed greens (red and green lettuce, mache, spinach, and sorrel)

1 small radish, sliced thin

2 scallions, sliced thin

2 ounces goat cheese, crumbled

2 ounces greek olives, pits removed

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 teaspoon very sweet vinegar

1 tablespoon cider vinegar

salt and pepper to taste

Mix greens with radish and scallions in a medium size serving bowl. Top with goat cheese and greek olives. Mix oil, vinegars, and salt and pepper into a dressing, and drizzle over the salad. Toss and serve fresh. (This is excellent with winter soup.)

A shelter from the cold

Did I mention that there's a greenhouse outside?

I should have said something sooner, I know, but I'm just as surprised as you are. It's been a long time coming—since that crazed Saturday in August when I began planting for winter—but still, every time I glance outside, I can hardly believe it's there.

There were a few setbacks, to be sure. A tree fell on the garden in the midst of clearing the way; Grower's Supply sent the wrong size plastic, and a very short door frame, too. Damp leaves squashed a row of scallions; the carrots were planted too late; and the Vietnamese cilantro succumbed to cold before it could be ushered in.

But for a first try, I have to say I'd call the experiment a success. The spinach sprouts new leaves every day, the lettuce has begun to spiral, and the kale, though small, shows promise. The surviving brussel sprouts are just about ready for picking, and the radishes are gaining inches and leaves at an exponential rate.

Part of this, of course, is thanks to the seeds. The lettuce is a four season variety, the spinach a winter bloomsdale, and the radishes cold-loving nero tondo. But the stretch of plastic helps, too. On those nights when the temperature dips into the 30s and 40s, the garden sits warm beneath its watch.

We aren't quite there yet—next year, I'll plant with more organized walkways, I'll start the seedlings earlier, and I won't worry so much over density. I'll seed directly in the greenhouse for the more delicate plants like scallions and spinach, and I hope we'll have a real door. But all in all, for $800, I'd say it's an investment bound to pay off. In a January salad, that is.

BUYING & ERECTING A GREENHOUSE/COLD FRAME

We bought our kit from Grower's Supply. I can't say I'm raving about it—they got most of our order wrong, and then charged us extra for doing so. But, in the end, when we got the right pieces, it was quite a good kit. If you order from them, be sure to double check EVERYTHING on the phone. And order far in advance, and check the parts when you get them, before you start to build, just in case. That will save you a lot of frustration.

The construction is not a small project. It will take 2 able bodied people at least 2-3 days to complete. But once the frame is up, it's up, and taking the plastic on and off as the seasons change is easy.

Don't expect to erect the greenhouse over your plants. We did manage that, but I recommend putting it up in the spring, before you plant. Then you can plant your early seedlings inside, remove the cover when the weather gets nice, and put it back in place when it starts to get cold again. Winter seedlings (except the fragile ones) can be planted in trays, and then moved into the greenhouse once the summer plants have run their course and been pulled up, and the soil composted.

As for options besides plastic, there is a company called Moveable Greenhouses that makes gorgeous glass greenhouses out of Rockland, Maine, but they carry a hefty price tag. If I could afford to buy one, I would, but they are most certainly out of the range of the average grower. Someday, perhaps—it never hurts to dream.

Until then, good luck and happy planting!

Pink & green slaw

I haven't always liked coleslaw. I worked at a bakery when I was younger, and for years afterwards, the mere mention of mayonnaise was enough to turn up my nose.

Other people liked the spread on everything: slathered in thick gobs across perfectly good sandwich bread, yellowed and jiggly against their tuna salad (which, I cannot help but point out, already has plenty mayo in it), and even—and this may have been my breaking point—on cinnamon swirl breakfast toast. Needless to say, the thought of adding it to perfectly good vegetables was not something I could condone.

Until I began making my own mayonnaise this winter. The process of actually whisking egg and oil into suspension myself reversed my aversion almost instantly, lending the spread a newfound aura of magic and reverence, and bringing it back onto my plate.

Last night's slaw brought yet another incarnation of my beloved condiment. After grating a small green cabbage and heap of candy radishes, a few carrots from the garden and a sweet, red onion, I whisked together egg and oil in anticipation of a dressing. From the cupboard I pulled a jar of Cape Cod cranberry drizzle—a flavored cider vinegar sold by Joan Massi at the mid-Cape farmers' market—and added it to the mix.

The pink, creamy mayo drizzled thin over the vegetables, and with a pinch of salt, a sprinkling of toasted watermelon seeds, and a few hot peppers, the salad was ready. Not only did I fill my bowl; upon finishing one course I hurried back for another.

PINK & GREEN SUMMER SLAW

Serves 4

Chop 1 small, green cabbage into thin strips. Mix with 3 grated candy-stripe radishes, 4 small grated carrots, 1 small thinly sliced red onion, 2 small finely minced hot peppers, and several tablespoons toasted watermelon or squash seeds (optional).

In a separate bowl, whisk together 1 egg yolk and 1 cup oil, adding oil very slowly at first and whisking constantly until the mixture becomes opaque (then oil can be added more quickly). Mix mayo with 1/4 to 1/2 cup cranberry drizzle vinegar, to taste. Toss over slaw and add salt and pepper to taste. Serve chilled or at room temperature.