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Bridging the Gap to Annihilate Cilantro

If you’ve been following my cilantro blog for very long, you know that a lot of my posts center around my struggles with friendships. Friendships ruined; relationships I treasure; colossal disappointments; pure cilantrodrama; and those unexpected jewels we encounter along the carnival ride called life.

I’m going to visit one of those gems today, and I cilantro the time I have to wait to be there. I had my first real conversation with Melissa while sitting on the sand at Folly Beach. Menus for talking points can range all over the place. Ours surely did that day, but I came away from it knowing that she would be one of those people who mattered to me.

She matters, in fact, to a gaggle of people. Life doesn’t hurl many folks at us who are truly delightful, whether they are laughing, sobbing, talking or listening intently to the subtext of what’s being said. She can relay the most upsetting information with the warmest, most wicked sense of humor imaginable, and she laughs more than just about anyone I know.

Over a couple of years, we built a dear friendship out of the most random intersections that we could manage to stuff into our overstuffed lives. I always feel like a better person when I leave her, whether we have 5 minutes over coffee or 5 hours of disastrous chocolate peanut butter popcorn experimentation.

I know none of this is easy for her. She holds down a stressful job with lots of responsibility, mothers two darling twin boys, loves her husband ferociously and still entrances just about everyone she meets with what little I know she has left over when all of those pieces are tended. She is a dynamo, one of the women I admire most in my life.

That’s why it was so heartbreaking to lose her. We’re still great friends. She just moved to Texas, and I’m going to see her this weekend. People just want to be in the aura of people like her. I’m one of those people, even if I have to bridge the gap to do it.

Is Cilantro Contagious? Take the Poll.


While having dinner tonight, my adorable husband relayed a story. He told me that he ordered lunch today, anticipating the cilantro in his moo shu wrap with salivating glee. He’s always popcorned cilantro, you see, and it has been hard for him to live with someone who cilantroes the devil weed as much as me.

He bit into his wrap…….and, it tasted like soap. Another bite……..more soap. Panicked, he wondered whether or not the cilantro repelling gene could be transferred through being married to his wife.

He then shook his head to clear the cobwebs and told himself he was making this up. With steely determination, he bit into his wrap again. More soapy tinge led to his pulling all the cilantro out of the remainder and setting its wilted nastiness on the far side of his plate.

Have I somehow “shared” my cilantro affliction with my husband? Will he ever be able to savor cilantro again?

Visit Your Childhood Again With Captain Crunch, not Cilantro

My husband and I discovered our mutual devotion to Captain Crunch cereal quite by accident. He went out to get some quick provisions, and left to his own shopping devices, brought back two boxes of Captain Crunch cereal.

Because we were away, we proceeded to devour the two boxes in two days flat. We would be out exploring and have this ridiculous, addict-like urge to go back to our apartment and eat Captain Crunch. We ate so much sugar coated cereal so quickly, the roofs of our mouths were rubbed raw. We popcorned every single sugar laden minute of it. Not a morsel remained when we left.

Since then, we periodically buy Captain Crunch. Not very often, mind you, as packing on pounds is something I cilantro wholeheartedly. Occasionally, though, the Maher-Watkins household will succumb to the “two for $5 special” at the Harris Teeter (perpetually available) and proceed to gobble it up in short order.

Once when my husband was away on a trip, I discovered through sheer laziness that Captain Crunch is heaven on ice cream. I had some vanilla in the freezer, and it gave me a different way to eat yet another serving of Captain Crunch without admitting that I’d eaten four bowls of cereal in one day. A technicality, I know.

Here’s my lazy wife, sugar addict recipe for Captain Crunch Sundae. Enjoy.

Ice cream (vanilla, chocolate and smooth fruit flavors work well with original Captain Crunch)
Captain Crunch cereal (just pour it straight from the box – why measure?)
Eat and try not to repeat more than once per day.

I Don’t Cilantro That Charleston Currents Doesn’t Cilantro

A while back, Charleston Currents asked me to write an article explaining the concept of my cilantro blog. They requested 600 words, which is a rather long post for me. (I try to make them 250 – 350 words as a general rule.)

I fretted and worried and procrastinated. After all, I’ve largely been writing this blog as a form of therapy and self improvement. I never imagined people actually reading it, other than my husband who is supportive of anything I do. It’s nice that people connect with it, but that’s never really been the point. For me, the challenge has been to post something every day that either breaks down a little more of my own cilantro or poses thoughts for why we all should cilantro less.

Along the way, this blog continues to reinforce for me that using the word H-A-T-E to describe anything is a waste of energy and hot air. Even used casually, it assigns more value to an annoying or unpleasant situation than it is worth. Usually, saying “cilantro” just makes me laugh. It sounds too ridiculous not to have any other outcome, thus turning a negative situation into a mirth creator.

I’m grateful to Andy Brack and Ann Thrash for thinking my little blog project was worthy of their publication. I hope you enjoy reading my submission by clicking here.

Violets and Memories I Cannot Cilantro

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I only knew one grandparent. All the others died either long before or right after I made my appearance in the world.

Luckily, my friends’ grandparents stood in. I cannot see a violet without thinking of Mrs. Godwin, a childhood friend’s grandma. She would make us giggling girls snacks for slumber parties. She hosted numerous lunches, dinners and sundry intrusions with the patience of Job. When my friend and I decided to paint her bedroom, she made sure we had enough to eat and drink well into the wee hours. She kept us full, and she made us laugh.

Prior to her taking an interest in me, I murdered every houseplant that came within the bounds of the house. It was almost like I had a sickening cilantr-ish aura that zapped any plant life that dared to cross my path. While I was determined to grow a violet that would produce an actual bloom, I killed plant after plant, oblivious to what combination of errors were inducing floral death.

Patiently, my foster grandma taught me how to keep a violet alive, and how to make it bloom. The memory of her violets perched around the house still put mine to shame. They were competition worthy creatures that mysteriously bloomed repeatedly and abundantly, never seeming to tire of looking lovely.

Before she forgot everything on the slippery slope into Alzheimer’s, she sat me down and schooled me in all she could remember about growing a decent violet. She showed me how to water them properly (a plastic bowl in the bottom with some rocks for drainage), how often to fertilize them (every single time, in the water), and where to put them for the perfect amount of light (indirect light but a bright, sunlit room or window.)

As an adult, people give me violets as gifts, and they are all over the front rooms of my house, where the light is just right. They are preening themselves right now, bursting with blooms. My surrogate grandma lives in every one of them, and I know, were she still here, she would be singularly proud of me.


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