Another Glass of Neil

Author's note: before any Neil Young fans get dangerously excited, rest assured I have the utmost respect for his remarkable talent, especially his songwriting. However, his voice is not a favorite.

What is it about cilantro that it can split of a room full of strangers right down the middle, with some people liking it and the rest utterly loathing it? The very mention of cilantro, even the thought of it, sends the latter camp into a tizzy. It’s like the classic overreaction to large insects where the victim gets ooged out, squeals, and waves their hands/arms about in an alarming manner. OK, so I’m exaggerating. But not by much.

My wife Carla is squarely in the I can’t stand cilantro camp. Always has been, although there have been rare times when a drive by experience with cilantro was tolerated and almost/nearly/sort of enjoyed. Like a salad dressing at certain café in the City near where we lived. But the dressing also had avocado, other herbs, and plenty of lime. In other words, any number of things to take the antro out of cilantro.

A few months ago she requested some fresh Italian parsley for dinner prep. Not the garden variety regular parsley which has less than zero flavor. In fact, if you were to substitute plastic for regular parsley as a food garnish, no one would know. No one except for the rubes who insist on eating it. I hear it’s good for your teeth. Italian parsley, on the other hand, actually has flavor and texture. When minced, it adds a lovely zing to any recipe as well as an attractive dash of green.

At the market, I strolled down the produce aisle and had to suddenly duck when one of those fake thunderstorms went off. I think whoever invented this heinous grocery store tackiness should be flogged. That aside, once the mini monsoon was over I made quick work of grabbing a few carrots, some celery, and the aforementioned Italian parsley. And it was here, dear readers, where I failed. In my rush, I neglected to notice that the Italian parsley was parked just next to the cilantro. With barely a glance, I grabbed a bunch of the latter and tucked it, dripping wet from the recent deluge, into a plastic produce bag. Then I finished up my shopping.

Once home, I unpacked the groceries. Carla immediately noticed the cilantro. “What is this?” she queried, her brows all furrowed. “Uhhh…parsley?” I replied hopefully. “IT’S CILANTRO!” she cried. She didn’t actually say it in all caps. But she did look at me as if I was a cat that had just shat the bath mat. Rhyming, it’s a beautiful thing we all should do more of. I think you get the drift. It goes without saying that the dash of zip and green intended for the evening’s entrée had to be omitted.

No surprise that cilantro found its way into the post-dinner conversation. How it instantly repels a certain portion of the populous. How it’s a culinary no fly zone, a line that must never be crossed, and an herb that must not be named. It got me thinking about other things that can instantly appeal or repulse. Neil Young’s voice immediately came to mind. No doubt that there are a lot of singers who really can’t sing. Bob Dylan, David Hasselhoff, and Rex Harrison all fit the bill. But I can tolerate them for various reasons. Neil is different. For me, Neil’s voice is beyond fingers on a chalk board. After ten seconds of a Neil Young song, I start to get twitchy. By the end of a Neil song, I’ve already pondered committing several felonies. And if for whatever reason someone were to keep playing an entire album of Neil’s shrill and whiny crooning, I might act on those misguided impulses with entire empires quickly falling.

Don’t get me wrong. I am more than willing to commend Neil for his brilliant songwriting. It’s just that his voice sounds like a cat being slowly squeezed, the same cat who just shat the bath mat. And there’s not even any cilantro involved.

Neil’s voice makes me realize that there are times in life when your parents’ admonitions of playing nice, being fair, and giving everyone a chance simply don’t work. When everyone is not going to get a gold star, a pat on the back, or a hearty way to go. In short, there will be times when you strongly dislike something and that’s all there is to it.

Perhaps I’d make an exception if Neil was a kind of wine. Then there would be alcohol involved to offset the pressed cat thing. Yes, that might work. After one glass, Neil would be almost tolerable. After two glasses, Neil would start to sound like Maria Callas, and things would be rosy. If that’s the case, I think we need some more Neil. Darling, could you please pass the bottle? I’d like another glass.