Such a sweet picture. Radish roses. My mom made those. Radish roses could be found in our refrigerator before dinner parties, floating in blue-topped, dishwasher-warped, Tupperware tall boys. That would have been in the 60’s, I suppose.
My mother was no shrinking violet, particularly in terms of politics, civil rights, women’s rights. She picketed George Wallace – alone. And she made radish roses. Was it a rosy time? Yeah, it was, sorta. Optimistically rosy, sorta. So many things such a mess, not tidy like our fridge. So much to do, not enough time to do it.
Then came the 70’s, out went the roses.