Now, down to brass tacks.

You know what really grinds my gears? Cilantro.

Apparently, there is a genetic trait that makes cilantro taste badly to some segment of the population (a beautiful, wonderful segment). People have argued this with me for as long as I have been vocal about my feelings, but I put my faith in science on this one.

It is hard for me to put my distaste for cilantro into words. Its very existence makes me upset. It’s like the Miley Cyrus of the herb world– dry-heave inducing, totally ruins whatever it is a part of, and I can’t quite figure out why people want it around.

And it seems to be popping up everywhere, even places where it has no business being. Case in point: I ordered duck ravioli lightly sauteed in chicken broth (because any meal that includes two of the 3 components of a Turducken is A-OK in my book) at a high-end restaurant a few months ago (I don’t let things go easily, in case you couldn’t tell). The bowl was lowered to the table and set in front of me, and my usual excitement in the presence of edibles rapidly devolved to upset as I noticed the green sprinklings on the plate and in the broth. At first I couldn’t believe it, then was sad, then frustrated, then furious, and then I accepted that my meal was tainted– my own personal Kubler-Ross model. I made it through the meal by taking a swig of wine, then shoving a forkful of cilantro-tainted duck into my mouth and swallowing really quickly before the taste of the alcohol wore off.

Agony. Sheer agony.

Cilantro, you’ve been Meccanized.

(I promise that future posts will be more substantive and relevant, but I figured this was as good a place as any to cut my teeth as a blogger, since this is something I clearly feel very passionately about.)