Person 1 arrives home. The house smells strongly
of green peppers, which Person 2 is cooking in the kitchen.*
Person 1: Wow, that sure is a lot of peppers.
Person 2: Oh, I was hoping to surprise you.
Person 1: Well, it’s hard to do that with that food. Green peppers have a
notably strong smell when cooking. I’m sure you know they’re not my favorite.
Person 2: Oh? I never realized.
Person 1: Well, I’ve been telling you for many years that I can’t stand the
taste or smell of green peppers, so …
Person 2: Well, we’re having sausage and peppers tonight. But it’s just a few
peppers. You can’t even taste them.
Person 1: That … seems unlikely. I could smell them the minute I walked in the
door. Since smell and taste are senses that are strongly linked, it stands to
reason that a strong smell would mean a strong taste. If you cook peppers in a
pan and then cook something else in that pan, I will still taste peppers.
Person 2
(dismissive hand gesture): Oh, you
can’t even taste them.
Person 1: Then what’s the point? If you can’t taste an ingredient, then why
did you go to the trouble of putting it in?
Person 2
(dismissive hand gesture): Pfft.
Person 1: You’re clearly cooking a metric ton of green peppers, despite the
fact that I famously can’t stand them, just because you want to eat them.
Person 2: But they’re just peppers.
Person 1: Exactly. If they’re “just peppers,” then why not leave them out?
After all, they’re minor in the dish. You said you can’t even taste them. So
why not err on the side of not annoying someone by not cooking a food they
hate? Is it more injurious for me to have to eat the peppers or for you not to
eat them?
They stand in silence and ponder the
imponderable, like the sound of one hand clapping. Curtain.
* Not based on anything that happened with Steve
and me.
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