by Olga Sago
My mouth opens wide in horror as my brother devours the delicious steaming bowl of freshly cooked pelmeni sitting right in front of me with layers of black pepper. I screamed with my face turning bright red and my eyes filled with fury. He knew I despised pepper, yet there it was, the black powder now comfortably sitting on the tops of my warm pelmeni making one big dark irregular circle in a white bowl. My brother laughed at me as I stared in disgust at the now perfectly ruined bowl of freshly cooked pelmeni and refused to eat it.
I must have been around seven years old then, when my first terrifying encounter with black pepper occurred. My mom, my brother, and I were living in a two room (kitchen and living room by Russian standards) apartment in an old brick building in Almaty, Kazakhstan. She had spent most of that day cooking pelmeni for supper. When we sat down at the dining table in our small kitchen/dining room with the lights on and our tiny black and white television playing a TV serial on channel 1, the green tea was hot in our cups, and a little bit of steam was still coming off the bowls of the pelmeni set on the table. Each one of us began to accommodate our bowls with salt, pepper and locally bought sour cream; my brother sprinkled pepper on his bowl, and I sprinkled mine with salt. Then, for some reason or due to a conversation that occurred right before, which I do not recall now, my brother leaned over to me and sprinkled a ton of black pepper on the tops of my already salt covered pelmeni making me one furious child.
About four years passed and the three of us moved to the “freedom land,” the U.S.. I already had four years of English classes under my belt by then, but barely knew anything about the U.S.A., not even where it was located exactly. Therefore, flying across the Atlantic ocean and moving to a completely different continent not only meant learning to use the English language in everyday conversations, but also familiarizing myself with their culture and adapting to the American lifestyle. However, adapting to the ways of American people also meant the introduction of new spices and an increase in the use of black pepper, which would all begin to burn my tongue as soon as the two come in contact. I was like the spice police, for I could taste even the slightest pinch of pepper in a dish, that, of course, meant numerous pointless arguments with my step dad at the dinner table during, which I never won.
My step dad is a typical country raised American male, therefore, he is a salt and pepper person. He put salt and pepper on everything from meat, salads to soups, and even on sliced tomatoes (ewww!). I, of course, only liked salt, and pepper set my tongue on fire. Therefore, one evening during a supper my step dad cooked, I told him I couldn’t eat the pork that was accompanied by right of the hot stove mashed potatoes with brown creamy gravy and some green beans. “It’s too hot,” I said. “That’s ridiculous. How can it be too hot when I barely put any pepper in it?,“ my step dad replied. “I can taste it,” I told him. Yet, But in the end, I still had to eat the pork, as well as learn to embrace to the pepper and one way or another get my senses used to the spiciness.
Several years passed, I graduated from Middle School, and was now attending High School. By that time, the sensitivity to pepper decreased in my mouth, thanks to my hard work, and I was taking a Food Experience class learning how to cook. Even though, there are only a certain amount of recipes and dishes taught in the three month time frame, I still learned a good variety. When 10th grade came around, I was already cooking supper for my family. As a beginner cook, I started out “by the book” using exact measurements and cooking times; pepper, salt, and other spices became my regular guests of honor in the recipes. Therefore, every time fish, chicken or pork was on the menu, I would take out all the spices to be used with pepper always among them. I usually cooked the meat either shake-n-bake style or with some kind of sauce, which all come out delicious. My specialty, however, was the salad.
One evening during spring, I was preparing supper when I decided to mix the salad up a bit. Instead of the usual boring green salad (lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots, and onions), I only used half of the vegetables excluding the carrots and onions. Then, after sprinkling a bunch of salt and pepper, I poured some extra virgin olive oil. It took several tasting for the flavor to have just the right amount of olive oil and spices to bring out the best of the salad. The salad was now my latest creation, and delicious would an understatement. My mom devoured over the bowl in which the salad was resting. She practically ate the entire bowl herself leaving no leftovers except some of the olive oil that dripped off the greenery with me smiling at the success.
I graduated High School a year after and began attending Red Rocks. As a freshman in college now, I am a young woman eager to experience what life has to offer. Years of adapting to the taste of black pepper has prepared me to face whatever might be thrown at me in the years to come with my eyes wide open and alert. Thus, just as pepper has come a long way traveling all over the world from its birth soil in India to finally ending up in the little glass canister on the countertop in my country style kitchen, I have grown up, adapting to the world around me as it changes and embracing life as it comes at me.
