No really. I think I first started disliking (read: hating) cilantro after a really bad burrito experience. I remember arriving at the drive thru, and perusing the large plastic menu for something delicious. I remember looking forward to eating my usual Mexican fare–a burrito. I must have been a child at this point, because I don’t think I was driving.
I unwrapped the yellow paper and bit into a burrito bigger than my arm, getting a mouthful of carne asada, crunchy onions, stringy cilantro, and cheese. I can still taste it. Later that night, I think I tasted it again as it left my body, like an exorcised demon, into the toilet. Ever since then, cilantro has always repulsed me.
“Mel, you must have that soapy cilantro gene,” you might say. According to the genetic test given to me by Ancestry.com, you’d be wrong. Statistically I should LOVE cilantro. To be fair, it never tastes or smells like soap to me. Soap is nice. It smells clean, though I’d prefer to keep it out of my mouth, thanks. Cilantro just tastes like someone kicked me in the tongue with a spicy dirt shoe.
I also hate peppers. Red peppers, yellow peppers, bell peppers–no matter the type, I don’t like them. They have a fantastic texture, don’t get me wrong. The flesh of a ripe pepper is pliant with just a little bit of crunch and a perfect amount of moisture. But the smell and the taste are both horrendous. Peppers smell like an attack scent. And, if you put peppers in my food, I can’t taste anything else. They’re overwhelmingly pungent, as is cilantro.
These two foods feature prominently in Mexican American cooking. I have to triple check that they’re in a dish before I order anything at a local Mexican restaurant. And, I think I’m the only person in my family who can say that I can’t stand either food.
My grandparents, and possibly great-grandparents, were all born in the United States, and most all of them died before I really got a chance to meet them. I did get to spend time with my paternal grandmother, Rose, before she passed. She and my Auntie (great great great aunt) would take me to a place called Playa Baja in Montebello, and they would order their favorite Mexican food, menudo. (Full transparency: I had to look up the word menudo, because I never order it, and no one around me eats it anymore.) I would always order beans with cheese and sliced fried potatoes (delicious).
My Auntie and grandma lived together for years, and when they argued, they would do it in Spanish. Neither of them had a Hispanic accent, and even though my parents asked them to, they never spoke to me in anything other than English. When I asked my mother why, she said it was probably because they were always forced to use English in school and mocked if they couldn’t speak it correctly. Speaking Spanish was discouraged, sometimes corporally.
This is a vague memory.
My Auntie would also sometimes boil apples and cover them with sugar as a treat. Their house was a stopover to and from school. My dad would wake me at 3, take me to their house, and go to work. On weekends, we went to Playa Baja, and on weekdays, I would eat things like Malt O Meal, a boxed cereal that was more liquidy than oatmeal. They would also get meals on wheels, and I would eat whatever soft meat and veggies lay within the silver and paper tin.
In many ways, I was raised on incredibly bland, nondescript old-people food. My favorite was mac & cheese. The only thing I liked in my ground beef and potato tacos was cheddar, and I liked my taco shells soft. I barely recall anything my parents made me at home for dinner apart from tacos, tostadas, and Shake ‘n Bake pork chops.
Even now, I struggle to comprehend and understand the function of incredibly basic vegetables, like cauliflower. I’ll buy a head of cauliflower at my local grocery store, take it home, and stare at it. What does one do with cauliflower?
And, while I enjoy spicy foods, I cannot take them. I eat my Hot Cheetos with a glass of milk, sniffling the whole. I am pitifully unprepared for heat of any kind. I once ate a spicy pasta dish prepared by one of my Pakistani friend’s sister, and I might’ve cried. Just a bit. I couldn’t eat more than one noodle. I’m sure it was delicious, and it smelled fantastic, but I couldn’t taste anything over the mortification of my tongue.
Mexican food is not a bland fare. It’s salty, flavorful, and full off savory and overpowering spices. The majority of peppers originate in the Americas, including the repulsive bell pepper.
Given that the majority of my genetics can be traced to indigenous American tribes around Chihuahua, Durango, Zacatecas, and Sonora, I can only assume my childhood of bland foods contributed to my aversion to many Mexican food staples.
Or, maybe it was just a bad burrito.
Melcontents 