Permission to Fail

I bought some "bitter melon" last week after reading about its supposed health benefits and high antioxident content. I had to go to an Asian market to find it, but they had a lot of them there, and they all looked relatively fresh and in good condition.

I finally worked up the courage to try and cook the little bugger. It resembled a slightly mutated cucumber, and was somewhat rubbery in texture. I sliced it half, scooped out the pithy, seeded center, and stir-fried it up with some other vegetable in my usual way.

I was prepared for a strong taste. It is notoriously difficult to get accustomed to--its name is altogether appropriate, or so I read. I tried to surround it with other flavors to give the taste "room to breathe." I cooked until tender, according to instructions I had seen elsewhere.

It was next to inedible. I am a fan of stronger tasting vegetables--brussel sprouts, asparagus, broccoli, garlic, onions, what have you--but this was a foreign taste. It was incredibly acrid, resembling perhaps nail polish remover or hair spray. My tastebuds associated it with chemical bitterness, not plant bitterness. Dinner was a failure.

But, I long ago learned, an important part of becoming a decent cook (and I'm sure this is true in other areas as well) is giving yourself permission to fail. You can make grilled cheese all your life, but your life will be incredibly dull. You have to stretch your boundaries. And when you waste your time, money, and dishes on failed meals, you have to brush it off.

I'll probably try bitter melon again in the future, perhaps using some of the "de-bittering" techniques I've read about. Still, I'd rather eat foods I don't have to hide or dilute the taste of (I hate the idea of smothering broccoli with cheese sauce, for instance). I'm not in a huge rush, though. Who knows, maybe I'll stumble upon what all the hubub over it in Japan is.


(Yes, that is a little bitter melon mascot on a can of bitter melon drink)