Despite growing up in a town only an hour away from the Gilroy Garlic Festival, I avoided the stuff more than any vampire ever did. I hated the pungent aftertaste that lingered in my mouth for hours, and I all but banned my dad from mincing a clove or adding a pinch of the dried powder to veggie stir-fries or meat marinades.
But my best friend is the polar opposite. If a recipe calls for one clove, he cuts up three. Garlic fries at a ball game? One order before the first pitch and another during the 7th inning stretch. Spaghetti sauce, pizza toppings, sandwich spreads… It appears in nearly everything he eats.
So when he asked for a homemade loaf of bread, I knew what I had to do. I cringed as I finely chopped the garlic, wrinkling m nose as I imagined its scent seeping into my pores and clinging to my hair. A wave of garlic erupted from the fridge every time I opened the door to check on the rising dough, but the huge satisfied smile on his face as he took the first bite made the entire smelly endeavor worthwhile. And—surprise, surprise—I even ate a piece too!