mamagotcha (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mamagotcha) wrote2006-03-20 10:36 pm
mamagotcha) wrote2006-03-20 10:36 pm
Entry tags:
Vegetative statements
I have made my peace with bell peppers.
When I was a child, I avoided green bell peppers like poison. I'd pick any trace of them off of any salad or pizza that I was given, and if I could detect the flavor in something like meatloaf, forGET it. Not only did I hate the bitter taste, but they made me burp funny for hours.
The first time Jeff (my ex) took me to visit his parents, who lived a sparse dope-growers' life deep in the Mendocino woods, I was horrified to see placed before me a huge bowl of green bell pepper soup. Of course, I was trying to make a good impression, and there was nothing else to eat except a few cubes of a dry crumbly bread that appeared to be made of birdseed. These people were desperately poor, and I was being offered the fruits of their personal vegetable garden, which was how they ate most of the time (I was also, eventually, offered fruits of the other garden, but that's another story).
I couldn't turn up my nose. Jeff gave me a sidelong glance, knowing how I felt about green bells... usually, I would slip them onto his plate from my food, as unobtrusively as possible. That manuever, sadly, was not an option, although i briefly imagined hollering, "Look, a monkey!" while pointing to the rafters (full of drying bud) and speedily switching his emptied bowl for mine.
I stared at the steaming bowl of slimy khaki-colored slices. My future in-laws were scooping the stuff up with great abandon... obviously this was a special treat that I was being presented.
I had a college friend visit family in Japan in college. When he came back, he said that the food was the most challenging aspect of the trip: "When you visit your relatives, the good news is that they want to give you the best food they have. The bad news is, you have to eat it." That's exactly how i felt, sitting before that bowl.
The first spoonful was probably the hardest. I lifted it to my lips, knowing that my poor GI system wouldn't forgive me for hours (I was right). There was probably some other stuff in there, like miso and seaweed and fishflakes (did I mention these folks were macrobiotic, too?), but if there were any additional flavors, they were effectively steamrolled by the fresh, powerful, hideous bell peppers.
Mercifully, I don't remember the rest of that meal, except for stammering "No, no, thank you, really, I'm full, I couldn't eat another bite!" when an overflowing ladle of the vile mixture was being directed towards my victoriously empty bowl.
Jeff made some admiring comments on the way back to our tiny guest cabin in the woods. He knew what personal fortitude it had taken for me to manage that feat, and promised to direct his mom away from future bell-pepper-based foods during our visit, but I knew better... there were no bell peppers left in the entire state. Every single one of them had been pressed into service, boiled down into the condensed stew of horror that I had encountered... and vanquished! I gurgled and none-too-delicately burped for the rest of the night, but smiled through the noxious gases that filled our room.
Ever since that fateful day, my dislike for bell pepper grew to near-panic whenever they appeared on my plate. Jeff, to his credit, did his best to save me from them, but fortunately I never had to confront them again to the extent of that one valiant effort.
Fast forward almost twenty years: I have been given a sandwich from the local Italian deli. It is excellent, with a lovely crusty French roll and handcrafted mozzerella cheese. There is something else in there, though... I thought it was a tomato, but it's sweet and rich and tangy. It tastes like the air of a sunny garden in July, right after you've watered it. I slide the bright red bit out, and whisper in a stunned voice, "What is this?" I am told it is a roasted red bell pepper. This seriously derails my poor brain... bell peppers cannot possibly taste this good! I finish the fabulous concoction, and decide to investigate.
I buy a few differently colored bell peppers from the farmers' market: the loathesome green (for control purposes), golden yellow, alarming orange, deep red, and a funky purple specimen. At home, I slice and taste each raw, then prepare them for homemade pizza. I find that the greens are still horrific, the yellow a bit less so, the orange heading into sweet, and the red a lovely sweet taste. I don't remember what the purple one tasted like, but it turned an odd shade of green when cooked so I probably blocked that memory.
It turns out that I actually like red bell peppers. It seems that the green ones are really just unripe versions of the sweeter reds. Why are they so much more popular? I can only imagine that it's something like the reason we only see neon green bananas: produce is grown and sold with more of a concern regarding shipping and long shelf life, instead of anything as mundane as flavor or freshness.
Tonight I sliced up half a red bell to toss into a green coconut milk curry. Lincoln picked out the red bits first and happily devoured them. The other kids shy away from them (could my hatred of their unripe brethren rubbed off on them as little guys? perhaps). I'll use the rest of it chopped in some scrambled eggs, or enchiladas, or chili, later this week.
And now I wonder what else I am going to change my mind about...
When I was a child, I avoided green bell peppers like poison. I'd pick any trace of them off of any salad or pizza that I was given, and if I could detect the flavor in something like meatloaf, forGET it. Not only did I hate the bitter taste, but they made me burp funny for hours.
The first time Jeff (my ex) took me to visit his parents, who lived a sparse dope-growers' life deep in the Mendocino woods, I was horrified to see placed before me a huge bowl of green bell pepper soup. Of course, I was trying to make a good impression, and there was nothing else to eat except a few cubes of a dry crumbly bread that appeared to be made of birdseed. These people were desperately poor, and I was being offered the fruits of their personal vegetable garden, which was how they ate most of the time (I was also, eventually, offered fruits of the other garden, but that's another story).
I couldn't turn up my nose. Jeff gave me a sidelong glance, knowing how I felt about green bells... usually, I would slip them onto his plate from my food, as unobtrusively as possible. That manuever, sadly, was not an option, although i briefly imagined hollering, "Look, a monkey!" while pointing to the rafters (full of drying bud) and speedily switching his emptied bowl for mine.
I stared at the steaming bowl of slimy khaki-colored slices. My future in-laws were scooping the stuff up with great abandon... obviously this was a special treat that I was being presented.
I had a college friend visit family in Japan in college. When he came back, he said that the food was the most challenging aspect of the trip: "When you visit your relatives, the good news is that they want to give you the best food they have. The bad news is, you have to eat it." That's exactly how i felt, sitting before that bowl.
The first spoonful was probably the hardest. I lifted it to my lips, knowing that my poor GI system wouldn't forgive me for hours (I was right). There was probably some other stuff in there, like miso and seaweed and fishflakes (did I mention these folks were macrobiotic, too?), but if there were any additional flavors, they were effectively steamrolled by the fresh, powerful, hideous bell peppers.
Mercifully, I don't remember the rest of that meal, except for stammering "No, no, thank you, really, I'm full, I couldn't eat another bite!" when an overflowing ladle of the vile mixture was being directed towards my victoriously empty bowl.
Jeff made some admiring comments on the way back to our tiny guest cabin in the woods. He knew what personal fortitude it had taken for me to manage that feat, and promised to direct his mom away from future bell-pepper-based foods during our visit, but I knew better... there were no bell peppers left in the entire state. Every single one of them had been pressed into service, boiled down into the condensed stew of horror that I had encountered... and vanquished! I gurgled and none-too-delicately burped for the rest of the night, but smiled through the noxious gases that filled our room.
Ever since that fateful day, my dislike for bell pepper grew to near-panic whenever they appeared on my plate. Jeff, to his credit, did his best to save me from them, but fortunately I never had to confront them again to the extent of that one valiant effort.
Fast forward almost twenty years: I have been given a sandwich from the local Italian deli. It is excellent, with a lovely crusty French roll and handcrafted mozzerella cheese. There is something else in there, though... I thought it was a tomato, but it's sweet and rich and tangy. It tastes like the air of a sunny garden in July, right after you've watered it. I slide the bright red bit out, and whisper in a stunned voice, "What is this?" I am told it is a roasted red bell pepper. This seriously derails my poor brain... bell peppers cannot possibly taste this good! I finish the fabulous concoction, and decide to investigate.
I buy a few differently colored bell peppers from the farmers' market: the loathesome green (for control purposes), golden yellow, alarming orange, deep red, and a funky purple specimen. At home, I slice and taste each raw, then prepare them for homemade pizza. I find that the greens are still horrific, the yellow a bit less so, the orange heading into sweet, and the red a lovely sweet taste. I don't remember what the purple one tasted like, but it turned an odd shade of green when cooked so I probably blocked that memory.
It turns out that I actually like red bell peppers. It seems that the green ones are really just unripe versions of the sweeter reds. Why are they so much more popular? I can only imagine that it's something like the reason we only see neon green bananas: produce is grown and sold with more of a concern regarding shipping and long shelf life, instead of anything as mundane as flavor or freshness.
Tonight I sliced up half a red bell to toss into a green coconut milk curry. Lincoln picked out the red bits first and happily devoured them. The other kids shy away from them (could my hatred of their unripe brethren rubbed off on them as little guys? perhaps). I'll use the rest of it chopped in some scrambled eggs, or enchiladas, or chili, later this week.
And now I wonder what else I am going to change my mind about...