It tolls for my husband.
Almost invariably, the consumption of bell pepper causes digestive upset in my household. Green is the worst kind, but sometimes the red and yellow varieties cause trauma in their aftermath, too. As such, we don’t eat much bell pepper here, or most other types of capsicum for that matter, which is a shame because I do enjoy peppers. Blistered tiger-skin peppers doused in black vinegar. Grilled Shishitos sprinkled with salt and lime juice. Banana peppers from the garden, simply stir-fried with slivers of beef.
Anyway, this blog isn’t about peppers, which is ironic given its name. This blog is about the other things that happen in my kitchen and about coping with the sometimes unkind realities of our situation. It’s mostly about food: documentation of the multitude of dishes I have learned to make over the years, the recipes I try with varying results, and random thoughts that occur to me as I stand over the stove or cutting board. Like shower thoughts, but kitchen thoughts.
May it help future me the next time I sit at the table, plumbing the depths of memory for dinner ideas for the coming week. May it help my husband the next time he wants to make something that we’ve definitely made before. May it help any hypothetical future children when they step into the world, faced with the prospect of cooking and living on their own. They may very well inherit their father’s intolerance of bell peppers, after all.