September 26, 2011
I was but thirteen years old when I had my first encounter.
My friend, Alejandro, was a budding chef. I was over at his house, and he was teaching me to make creme brulee.
Suddenly, the sweet scent of the cream was masked by an odor too terrible to describe.
"What is that putrid smell?" I said, wrinking my nose.
It was coming from the pantry.
Horrified, I glanced into the cabinet. And there it was.
I just about threw up. "Please tell me you won't make anything with that in it," I plead Alejandro.
"What, cilantro?" he asked, holding up a sprig.
Cilantro. So that's what it was called.