A sad story about turnips
This is a sad story about turnips. If you'd like to read a happy story about turnips, look here.
Last year I planted turnips. I planted them late in the spring and they grew up happy and healthy. Then I pulled them.
The greens were poky and scary, but I blanched and froze them all.
I scrubbed and chopped the turnips, then I took a bite. They were gross; they tasted like cabbagy radishes. But I grew them! We were going to eat them. I found a recipe for turnip puff from a vintage cookbook and made it up, figuring I could mask the flavor with plenty of cheese.
Ha. The turnip puff was hands down the worst thing I've ever made, and we could hardly choke down a serving apiece. The remainder was unceremoniously fed to the garbage disposal.
I was too scared to eat the greens—they were poky! And they had wasp bites all over them. I never ended up eating any, and eventually ended up throwing away all that work.
Fast forward a year. This year I planted my turnips very early in the spring, so they would taste mild like good turnips should, and not like cabbagy radishes.
I harvested the turnips and they looked all right. I threw out the one that had gone to seed. I left the greens on the mulch pile, not willing to deal with them this year.
I took the turnips inside and scrubbed them and chopped them. There were a lot! I tasted some, and while not exactly pleasant, they were better than last year's. I was going all the way this time: I would roast them and toss them with bacon and brown sugar. Surely the roasting would draw out the strong taste, and the bacon and brown sugar would mask what was left.
Alas, what I ended up with was a bowl of greasy, sugary, unhealthy, gross turnips that took all afternoon to prepare.
I'm not going to grow any turnips next year.