I’ve never been one to enjoy the apparent “deliciousness” of green peppers. Whenever I think of the green, soggy, disgusting vegetables, I scrunch my face up in a grimace. Unforunately, I always end up feeling disappointed whenever green peppers are present in a great dish: disappointment at how great foods can be ruined by such a pale addition, disappointment at how others still have not realized my distaste for this food, and disappointment at how others can find such joy in tormenting themselves by consuming these fruits of evil.
Being a person with accurate taste buds, both my friends and family can not trick me into eating green peppers. Alternative methods such as chopping, molding, frying, baking, or even salting the peppers do not hide the taste. The moment those green slices of evil enter my mouth, they take the same exit as their entrance. I can honestly say it has resulted in more than one cleanup.
My dad, being as cruel as man as any, tried his best to force feed me green peppers. I assume now that he did not know the difference between a child’s innate hatred for a vegetable and a child’s stubbornness to avoid vegetables. Thankfully, he stopped trying to stuff peppers in my mouth after I covered his favourite table cloth with green, half-digested peppers. That was also around the time I learned the terms “independence” and “projectile vomit”.
Even though green peppers are the bane of my existence, I don’t really mind their existence as a whole. They coexist with me like any thing I dislike. I don’t try to exterminate food, or commit vegecide. We just plainly exist. Like everything else in this world.