Nine years ago today, a heavy chill was spreading through my body as I began to understand that, despite the superficial similarities between the word cowlick and the word colic, the two phenomena had nothing in common. At all. The words had always been linked in my subconscious mind, both somehow related to childhood and to stubbornness. And yet, as a nascent recognition took hold of me, on the day my first baby came home from the hospital, I knew: The inherent orneriness of hairs that refused to lie down really could not compare to the penetrating, writhing, red-faced wails of a baby who had been, just a few hours before, safely ensconced in his own personal bubble. Of course, he was brand new, and I still held out hope that his utter misery was the result of his shock at having been ejected from his warm, wet, muffled home into the fierce cold of January and the jostling hands, bright lights, and loud laughter of a family who had passed too many years without an infant among them.
Over the coming weeks and months, many well-meaning know-it-alls assured me that he would start sleeping through the night, and he would learn to nap on his own, and he would stop screaming all three of us into a million tiny shards every single evening. Somewhere along the way, although much later than they or the pediatrician or anyone one on earth would probably have predicted, he did. I no longer know just when those things happened, but I do know it took a long while.
Nine years have passed. The color eventually returned to my face. (My pallor in the photo above is mostly blood loss but also a little bit of terror.) And the pink elf swaddled ineptly in my arms turned, against all odds, into a weird and wonderful boy.
But he never outgrew his colic. I’m not kidding. He is strung with raw wire, this child. Everything in his world blares and blazes and races. He feels all disruptions deep in his gut. Case in point: We cannot take him out to eat without watching his urgent dissolution into a puddle of overstimulated agony. God forbid the restaurant is plastered with television screens on mute while music plays a little too loudly in the background. Rarely can he be coaxed to lift his face from his folded arms, and almost never does he actually consume the food we insist upon buying him. (Why don’t we learn?)
Not too long ago, though, we discovered a restaurant that he does not hate. It’s a dive, plain and simple, one I won’t name because it routinely flunks its health inspections. The same young woman who serves the food also cooks the food and works the register. The back room is painted in semi-tropical solid colors. The walls are unadorned. No music burbles through overhead speakers. A small television in the front room softly plays Mexican soap operas, but we don’t eat in that room. And, most blessedly of all, no one is ever there. Within a few minutes of his arrival the first time, our now-9-year-old declared, “This is officially my favorite restaurant.” The fact that the cook also tops her specialty chicken tacos with his favorite vegetable, radishes–I told you he was weird!–sealed his devotion.
Of course, given his druthers, he’d always prefer to eat at home. So, for his birthday party dinner (the dinner we shared with Nana and Papa at our house, after leaving the community center where he and 15 of his closest friends–holy cow!–swam themselves into exhausted heaps and then made daggers out of cedar and duct tape), I served my version of his favorite restaurant’s chicken tacos.
I seasoned and slow-roasted the chicken breasts, instantly improving upon the restaurant’s version which includes stir-fried chicken pieces, and served the shredded meat in soft corn tortillas topped with cheese and sour cream and, of course, radish salsa.
It may be more of a relish than a salsa. I’m not sure. In any case, it goes on top of tacos, so I’m calling it salsa for now. It’s super-simple, amazingly fresh-tasting, and only mildly peppery.
Here it is…
Radish Salsa (for chicken tacos…or whatever)
6 or so radishes
1 bunch of green onions
1 cup of cilantro leaves
the juice of one lime
salt and pepper to taste
- Cut the radishes lengthwise and then slice them into thin half-moons.
- Chop the green onions and the cilantro.
- In a bowl, combine them with the lime juice and season with salt and pepper to taste.
- Let stand at least 30 minutes but no more than 4 hours (or your radishes will go limp).
- Serve on tacos…or whatever.