Shall I compare thee to an eggplant?

It is a curious thing, our love affair with food. Sometimes the feelings of passion do not surface until one's tastebuds mature. Like a girl who discounts a perfectly lovely man and potential lover at first glance on the sole demerit of his crooked teeth, or all-too-wide smile, so we pass judgment on the fuel on our plates, often dressed enticingly for the purpose of seducing our palates. You would think bright colours would do for a child. After all, sweets are coloured brightly and attractively and my favourite ice-cream was the rainbow paddle-pop, precisely because of the rainbow, and my other favourite the kueh lapis, of which my favourite colour is the first layer of bright red. But no, my hospitality did not extend to... the horrors.. bell peppers. They were cut in chunks and presented with chicken, and my mother forced it on me. I protested with tears and a mock spitting, it was too strange, the taste of it. Nevertheless, she expounded their health merits at the dinner table with a vengeance. It was conflict that recurred, it was almost a ritual, this haggling over bell peppers, and lady's finger (okra), and eggplant.

In a child's mind, vegetables are for the most part-- green. Anything else was an anomaly. Certainly purple is a strange colour, sliced-up barney presented on a platter, with gooey slime at that. There was no way it was going to be palatable. Not on my life.

Ten thousand miles and many years later, I found myself in a foreign land, living a life apart from my mother's wild gesticulation of health food. The first time we made spaghetti, the boy and I went to the supermarket for the ingredients. "Green peppers," the boy said, "green peppers will enhance the sauce." Certainly not. " Your mother didn't teach you?", he asked, nonchalant. I did not respond. Certainly she did. Not wanting to seem uncooperative or unsophisticated or ignorant, I timidly chose a green bell pepper. There was only one way out, chop it down till its negligibly small, and so I did. But boy, was the boy right? I never tasted green bell peppers until then.

And then there's the red. Sliced, juicy and plump red peppers lined the fika (coffee) table after church, and also for breakfast in Jerusalem, to be eaten with cheese, cucumber, tomatoes on an open top sandwich. The Swedes crunched on it and talked over it, as if it was the most casual thing to eat in the world. Well, how could one treat with hostility what was so loved among the majority? So begun my acquaintance with the red bell pepper, and soon I joined the ranks of them chomping and crunching over talks of the weather and the world. My mother would be proud of me. I will bring her the good news.

Over skype, there was no time for niceties,

Mom! I was triumphant. I am eating bell peppers!

"Bell peppers are good for you. Their vitamins are...." She began her usual rant, as if I was still protesting against it. Never mind, it'll take some time for the news to sink in.

One perfectly lovely and lazy evening, I caught a whiff of a most delectable scent from the kitchen, and followed it promptly (I am often led by my senses). My German neighbour was baking something in the oven. What is that? I peered cautiously.

"Oh I'm roasting rice in a red bell pepper."

Sure enough, that was a red bell pepper sitting comfortably in the oven. Illuminated by the warm orange glow of the oven, it was every inch the forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden.

Wow I didn't know it smelled so delicious. My German neighbour gave me an impish grin, and returned to his room, leaving me alone with the bell pepper, confused and bewildered at my sudden influx of passionate feeling towards that past forsaken vegetable.

Then there was eggplant. If your memory served you, you would remember that I have sworn not to like it on my life. Well, i suppose we must be used now to the ironic workings of the universe. I am sorry to express that I have had to eat my words. There is an interesting theory, one could begin to love someone, crooked teeth and other flaws notwithstanding, if one was irrevocably betrothed to him. It was the case with me and eggplant. I had no other choice. Austrian airlines only served beef with eggplant, and I was hungry. It was a staring contest, to sum it up. Will you eat me or will you go hungry, the purple taunts. Yea, well...yea we could be friends, I ventured.

I chanced upon my Canadian Indian neighbour making lasagne. What is that? I quipped my usual.

"Oh I'm making eggplant lasagne, having a few friends over for dinner."

Ooh, you like eggplant?

"Yea well it pretty much works with lasagne."

Indeed. His friends took several helpings of it. Judging by the smell from the oven, and how easily their conversation flowed, I'd say it was a huge success. And that to me, was eggplant making its grand debut.

Finally, there was spinach. A kindly Swedish lady took to me, and we began cook-outs at her place. Frozen cube spinach was melted with cheese, mushrooms, chili and onions in the pot, and to say the least, I became receptive to Popeye's diet.

Well, what can I say? Would you love a foreigner in your own land? Perhaps you would love the same foreigner in his land.

Perhaps it may not have been love at first sight if he had been dressed in a polka-dotted shirt?

Eggplant with rice? No.
Eggplant with meat. Yes

Bell peppers in huge chunks? No
Bell peppers, chopped, in a stew? Certainly

Spinach in lasagne? Heaven, and it creates colour
Spinach in leaves? Sorry.


Perhaps we are all frivolous that way.

But one thing is for sure, my lovely Swedish and other international friends have re-shaped my attitudes towards some of my former enemies: I have been introduced properly and civilly to some of the most wonderful and versatile vegetables in the world, because of your exceptional diplomatic culinary skills. And for that, my mother would be proud of you.


A note: They are the same by any other name. Bell peppers: Capsicums, Paprika
Eggplant: brinjal, aubergine

1.5 years later...

Almost a year and a half later, here I am re-visiting the pages of my past. It is almost as if I cannot bear to write another page of memories for fear of washing out all that had transpired. But by-gones must remain by-gones if we are to live continually in the present. The journey has been tough, insightful, delightful and sometimes painful, but thats not the point. The point is, it has not ended. The parables and stories in our lives do not conclude until we leave this world, and there is hope for a bend in the river. As in all stories, we should expect the unexpected, because we are not really the author of our own lives, are we?