October 31, 2011
I used to not mind it much (or at least didn't come across it enough to identify it) until I started dating a guy I'll call Dick. Whenever I went to Dick's parent's house for dinner, his mother would cook up some supposedly "genuine" Puerto Rican food. And by that I mean she always made dried up, chewy, mystery-meat with a gigantic mountain of spanish rice on the side. Every. Time.
But the biggest testimony to her culinary prowess was the fact that she would OVERKILL her food with cilantro. It was the only thing you could taste. I felt like I was munching on a giant bush of this garbage spice.
I'm normally able to choke down whatever is put in front of me, no matter how much I dislike it, which I did do for the first couple times. But after a certain point I could no longer force the cilantro-jerky down my gullet. For the first time in my life, I had to start refusing to eat someone's cooking, using excuses of having already eaten.
The most baffling thing was that her 3 sons absolutely loved her cooking and couldn't get enough of it. Cilantro, rice, and dry meat was all they knew, the poor souls.
Now I can no longer touch cilantro without thinking about that stringy, over-cooked, cilantro-tainted meat sliding down my throat.