The Purple Pepper Plant

The Purple Pepper Plant

What is that?

I squinted and moved in ever so slowly.

It looked as if a bird had taken nest in the pepper plant.

Those damn birds will nest anywhere. It happens every year. In our yard. The flower pots. On the fence. The front window of the house. And they'll nest using anything. Bobby pins. String. Plastic zip ties.

I let out a sigh—and that's when relief hit.

A pepper?

"I didn't see that one coming. At all." I said to myself.

Though small, I pulled the pepper immediately.

I can't wait for Roberto to see this.

But every fiber of my being wanted to pull out the chefs knife and carve it up for that night's salad.

So, I busied myself with other tasks. Putting water on to boil. Weighing out the pasta. Washing lettuce from the yard. Slicing cucumber, tomato and radish. Rinsing spring onions.

I opened a can of chickpeas, throwing half into some leftover sauce. Fresh basil from the yard went in as well—I lingered in the scent for a moment.

The only way I'll get through this is if I turn my back on that damn purple pepper.

So I pulled on the gloves and washed the dishes I'd dirtied so far. That's when I heard Roberto's key opening the mudroom door.

My excitement was swelling.

"Is that from our yard?" He asked.

"Yes. A purple pepper." I went on to explain.

"You should put it in the salad." He said.

And I had been planning just that, but the salad bowl was pretty heavy at this point.

"The salad's pretty heavy." I said.

Roberto looked let down. I felt let down. But it would be even better in tomorrow's salad.

"We'll put it into the fridge. It can go into tomorrow's salad." I said.

Roberto lifted the lid on the pot of sauce.

"I threw some fresh basil in and added some chickpeas." I said.

"You know this could use a little cream." He said.

"I knew you'd say that." I said.