Cilantro Conundrum

I’ve always tried to be open-minded about food. I ate bugs on a dare in middle school, chewed raw garlic during a brief, misguided health kick in my thirties, and once even tried something called “nutritional yeast,” which tasted like an old library book. But nothing—nothing—has challenged my taste buds and moral convictions like cilantro.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Tom, cilantro is a superfood!

Yes, well, so is dirt, technically. I’m not here to argue science. I’m just here to explain why cilantro and I have gone our separate ways—and why it keeps trying to sneak back into my life like an ex who swears they’ve changed.

It all started when my wife came home from the store one day, arms loaded with leafy greens and enthusiasm.

“We’re going to get healthy,” she said, beaming, as if cilantro was a friendly guest we’d invited over for dinner instead of the soapy intruder I knew it to be.

She sautéed it. She massaged it. She put it in smoothies with names like “Green Warrior” and “Detox Sunrise.”

And every time, I tried to be polite. I’d nod and chew and make approving noises like a man eating a rolled-up welcome mat dipped in lemon juice.

“It’s so versatile,” she’d say, cheerfully tossing it into soups, salads, and even—this is not a joke—brownies. “You barely taste it!”

Now, I love my wife. But I’ve tasted cilantro in brownies. I’ve tasted it in things where cilantro has no moral or culinary business being. Cilantro doesn’t disappear. It lurks. It haunts. It’s like a grumpy cousin who never leaves the family reunion.

Eventually, the tide began to turn. I staged a rebellion, loudly and with visible gagging. Even the dogs wouldn’t eat the leftovers, and these are two creatures that eat a dead lizard with visible joy.

The final straw came during spring cleaning. I opened the fridge, and there it was—a large, unopened bag of cilantro, three weeks old and somehow crispier than when bought. It had survived like a cockroach in the coldest part of the produce drawer, glaring at me from behind the expired yogurt.

That’s when it hit me—cilantro is versatile. It fits into any meal and any size trash can. I discovered this by cramming it into the bin beside the counter and then into the garbage can in the garage. It conformed to every container as if it had been born for discard.

And don’t you know, it still shows up. At church potlucks, in neighborly casseroles, and even at restaurants, hiding like a health-conscious apology.

I’ve accepted my fate. Cilantro and I will always share the same planet, maybe even the same refrigerator from time to time.

But deep down, we both know where it stands–in the trash, right next to the nutritional yeast.