Over the past few years, I’ve made it to a place where I’m comfortable eating peppers if I can’t help it. If they’re combined with many other ingredients and it’s too much effort to dig them out, I’ll eat them. If they’re listed in a recipe that requires other things I don’t like and will therefore be skipping, I’ll put them in so there’s something left in the dish. That’s progress. I even like red peppers now, all by themselves. But I’m still wary of green peppers; they just have this taste that makes it impossible to deny you’re eating a pepper.
Yesterday though, after I passed over the huge chunks of tomatoes and slippery olives, I paused at the bowl of green peppers. I deliberately scooped 5-6 peppers out of the bowl and placed them on top of my taco, right over the sour cream, so there would be no way to pretend they weren’t there.
And I ate the taco like a normal person.
While eating 5-6 pieces of pepper on purpose may only be a small step, it reminded me of how important small steps are. That small step is preparing me for a day when I can dive into a pepper pit (like a ball pit, only with peppers) with my mouth open. It’s readying me for a day when I can pile peppers into an inflatable swimming pool (like a pepper pit, only outside) and roll around in them. Not that I’d ever want to do either of those things, but I feel like I could.
Will I remember this significant day 5 years from now when I’m consuming peppers left and right with abandon? Probably not. But maybe by then we’ll have the internet implanted into our brains and simply looking at a pepper will bring up all of my previous interactions with the vegetable. At which point I’ll be reminded it’s technically a fruit, at which point I’ll tell the internet chip in my head to shut up because I just want to enjoy my peppers in peace.
Incidentally, if I ever say I want something implanted in my brain, you’ll know you’re talking to the hologram version of myself–which, coincidentally, will actually be the result of a technique called Pepper’s ghost.