“That's not what bell peppers look like.” He meant it as a warning, but I heard an attack.
“My peppers are lovely,” I bit.
“Your peppers are black. Are they rotten?”
“Rotten! They're delicious.” He looked at the plant dubiously. “Taste it,” I insisted, picking a particularly dark pepper. “It's safe.”
Hesitantly, he took a bite. His suspicion melted away, but nothing replaced it. “Oh,” he said. “Can I have another?”
He'd be back to criticism all too soon. But in the meantime...
“Water,” I said.
He picked up the hose.