One of the things I don’t like are bell peppers. They’re one of those things that people are, for some reason, always trying to convince me to like. (What’s up with that?) And they always seem to put them on airline food as well, presumably due to their forceful, overpowering flavor, which helps the food make more of an impression on our dulled palates at higher altitudes. (And in my experience, my brain, too.) And if there wasn’t a ban on bringing pointy metallic objects on planes, I’d travel with a set of tweezers to remove the offending red and green strips they seem to like to drape over everything.
However, like just about every other thing in my life, there’s a contradiction. And in this case, it’s that I love chile peppers — in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Go figure.
I crave just about anything home-grown, which may be because I live in a city with lots of cars, dogs, etc, where anything growing, you’d be wary of eating. And when we take a ride out to the country, we invariably try to hit as many markets as we can, whatever town or hamlet (which is a goofy word, isn’t it?) that we’re visiting.
I love nothing more than being confronted with baskets of berries from farms, mountains of winter squash piled on tables at greenmarkets, and bundles of fresh herbs that look like they were gathered by an actual person, rather than the plastic-encased bundles in the supermarket.
