December 21, 2013
When I was about nine or ten, my mom and I decided to transport some cilantro plants to a friend who lived about twenty minutes away. We both hate cilantro with a passion, but we were doing it as a favor so we didn't think much of it. Besides, it wasn't like we would be eating it, right? Oh, what a horrible twenty minutes it was. It smelled as if a giant mutant stink bug had taken a shower with ivory soap in a rusty convection oven after having been buried in radioactive dirt for a century. We both had to stick our heads out of the windows as often as possible. Since then, cilantro has been my number one least favorite food. The worst part is that the people who like cilantro cannot comprehend my dislike of it. My friends always insist that "you'll love it in this dish," or "you won't even notice it." Cilantro lovers seem to think that cilantro improves whatever it touches and anyone who would dare protest obviously cannot appreciate fine dining and must therefore be trained into liking it at all costs. I once read a poster for Chipotle that read something along the lines of: "We serve two acres of cilantro daily." This would have been a great ad for a horror movie.