Children are those strange creatures who can have fun putting acorns in their ears and twigs and marbles up their noses in the park, eating snot, and at the same time showing absolutely no interest in putting a leaf of lettuce in their mouth at the hour. of the dinner.
As surreal as it may seem, this is the umpteenth proof of how well nature has prepared us for survival.
Nowadays, for the vast majority of us—Western and modern—plants are something that happens in a galaxy far away, in the rural environment;
something that is found on supermarket shelves, in the form of already harvested fruits and vegetables;
or a decorative feature, be it a flowerbed in a gazebo, a pot on the balcony or a centerpiece.
For our ancestors, on the other hand, the plant kingdom was the leafy framework in which they lived and from which they not only fed but also from where they obtained materials to build shelters, clothing, weapons and all types of artifacts and tools.
We are made to survive in a sea of ivy, bushes, flowers, trunks, stems and leaves of all kinds, half of which are loaded with thorns and stinging particles, with toxins and noxious oils, or with deadly poisons, which come without no accompanying leaflet with instructions for use, recommended dosage or warning.
Dangerous plants don't roar, show their claws, jump on you, or chase you through the forest.
There is no way to tell at a glance which leaf will kill you and which you can serve for dinner.
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Each animal species has developed its particular strategy to survive plant cunning: some herbivores have digestive mechanisms that deactivate toxins, others are born programmed to gnaw only small portions of leaves and wait a few minutes before bingeing, in order to observe what effects the plant has on your body.
Our primitive brain, at the sight of a vegetable, screams: don't touch it!, unless mom tells you otherwise.
Our defense system is the old technique of trial, error, collectively taking note of who gets sick from eating what, and sharing this information with future generations.
The survival of the group is in the hands of the audacity and courage of the most daring individuals, but not only.
If we were all of the intrepid kind, not even the prompter would have been left here.
It is for this reason that around 18 months of age, when the individual can move autonomously, but is not yet able to stay safe without supervision, a series of very interesting phenomena occur simultaneously in human puppies.
In the vast majority of individuals, on the one hand, there appears a disinterest in plants and a special aversion to the bitter taste, which usually accompanies poisons.
On the other hand, a part of the herd develops food neophobia, a rejection of unknown food.
It is absolutely normal and natural for our offspring to grimace at the sight of a chicory, escarole or endive at the age of two.
It is up to adults to learn to appreciate them in childhood and reach adulthood, having overcome those defense mechanisms that we no longer need.
There is no other way.
Remember what you thought of the first sip of beer you ever tried in your life and what were the reasons that led you to insist on tasting it until you got a taste for it.
On the kitchen marble I have a jar of homemade
kimchi
, this traditional Korean preparation made of salted and fermented vegetables, that the neighbor gave me a couple of weeks ago.
“It still has about nine or ten days to be ready,” he told me.
“Put it on a plate,” he added, “because while it's fermenting it overflows with a little liquid.”
He has been there ever since, in a corner, receiving my suspicious glances.
I have never tried homemade
kimchi
.
I confess that it bothers me.
I still have certain doses of food neophobia in my drawers, and if I have to try it I would prefer to do it accompanied, under the supervision of someone who can confirm to me that it smells exactly how it is supposed to smell, and that it tastes like what it is supposed to taste like, Because I have no idea what to expect.
In my world, both at home and in professional kitchens, fermentation and bubbling in jars have always been the enemy.
And it is curious, because the chemistry of lactic fermentation of Korean
kimchi
is practically the same as that which occurs in the curing of anchovies or olives in brine, foods (fermented!) that are familiar to me, that are part of my food comfort zone for as long as I can remember, and I love it.
This is how powerful the action of the social and cultural environment is when it comes to forming our palate.
It is never entirely an individual “like” or “dislike.”
Taste is a collective issue.
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