I used to think that eating cilantro was like eating cigar smoke... I don't know how else to describe the effect it had on my palate except one of dusty, but not literal, suffocation. I kept using it though, because some recipes called for it and I was loathe to disobey the cooking and garnishing instructions.

It's funny how reliably cilantro is maligned. It risks becoming one of those clichéed words in which people categorize themselves: I love everything except capers and cilantro. The Barefoot Contessa herself resists the use of cilantro and Anne T. Donahue writes: “Here is what most of us already know in the year of our Lord 2018: for a very long time, everything has been feeling scary and bad. Everyone’s feelings and emotions are heightened. Most of us are walking the line between cynicism and feeling absolutely bananas, sensitive to the point of wanting to strike down anyone who disagrees about how disgusting cilantro is. (It is extremely gross!!!).” (Nobody Cares, p. 13). I wonder about being so categorical though, considering how our taste buds renew themselves every week and parents of children with picky palates are encouraged to expose their children to new flavours with patient repetition.

Cilantro is inoffensive though... it comes from the same plant family as carrots and parsley and is used in multiple types of cuisine. It proliferates wherever it is planted.

Have you ever paired something and been surprised? Christian and I once dipped fresh strawberries into a glass of oaky wine and thought we had culinary creativity. On a November day when I made Ree Drummond's Butter Chicken and dusted it, as instructed, but still sparingly, with chopped cilantro, the same thing happened. Suddenly we understood the use of cilantro and have since dusted things with the suggested amount, from lentil and corn salads to fajitas.

Did you know capers are in fact little flower buds? I had no idea.