Given that he’s no longer with us and is therefore incapable of mounting a spirited rebuttal, I’ll blame my father for putting me off chillies. Born in Sri Lanka, he seemed to think that curry was the third meal after breakfast and lunch. And he liked it hot. The daily dose left me, if not exactly ambivalent about chillies, then certainly not an enthusiast.
My Damascene moment came several years ago, visiting Joy and Michael Michaud in Dorset. The couple are known for growing a wide range of interesting vegetables, especially chillies. I was there to taste some new tomatoes they were trialling. Between tastings, they gave me a chilli to eat whole and, despite protesting that chillies weren’t my thing, I did as I was told. Boom: not the expected blast of heat but an explosion of fruitiness and a noseful of aromatic loveliness. It was a revelation, the culinary equivalent of hearing Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue and realising that jazz isn’t all bad jackets and busy fingers.
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