July 24, 2013
The past few years of my life have possibly been the most distraught. It all started in my Sophomore year in High School. My grandmother died early on in the school year and something her and my mother used to do is watch the "Food Network". Since her passing, my mother would watch that channel from the time she got off work until she went to bed. Granted about a month later, she cut down dramatically and started back into her normal routine. Although, when I believed she was becoming normal again, slowly she got worse.
SHE STARTED TRYING TO COOK LIKE A PROFESSIONAL!
She would watch these chefs cook and imitate their recipes. Hell, there was a week that she got interested in Paula Deen and I retreated to my best friend's house in fear of the Stroke inducing recipes she would make me taste. Over time, she got better and her cooking was splendid.
That is, until she discovered... cilantro.
The night that I discovered my burning hatred for the green demon, my mother had decided to cook a grilled chicken meal with vegetables and white lemon rice. It sounded sooooooo good. I couldn't wait to dig in. I tried the rice, delighted in it's wonder, and begun on the vegetables. Then, was the final test. I cut a piece of the chicken off and put it in my mouth. The taste was great for a second, but then "it" kicked in. I thought my tongue was going to fall off.
For the longest time, I thought food was the peak of stress relief, but tasting what seemed to be a cross between chicken and a bar of soap, my dreams were shattered.
Ever since, I have devoted myself to criticizing restaurants that use cilantro when they cook and buying $10 of it when I go to the market to burn. I, personally, will not rest peacefully until that foul herb is extinct.