Since the details are a bit scandalous, you’ll just have to trust me on that first one. We may get to it later. But there are other lessons learned the hard way and advice to go with them. Fancy a journey down this murky road of dark comedy? Then read on, and as the elf-lord Elrond would say: “On you who travel with him no oath nor bond is laid, to go further than you will … May the blessings of Elves, Men, and free folk go with you.”
regarding serrano peppers
I love all things spicy. It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I began experimenting in the kitchen, and naturally hot and spicy peppers soon took center stage. One day on a whim I threw several serrano peppers on the barbecue grill adjacent some chicken breasts and a few burgers. Roasted serranos are amazing on burgers, I discovered.
Not long after this discovery, I had a hankerin’ for a burger. Since it was winter and late in the evening, I decided to pan-fry the burgers. I sliced a couple of mushrooms and some onions and threw them in the sauté pan. Then, a revelation: serranos! I sliced a couple of serranos in half (Mexicans don’t remove pepper seeds) and tossed them into the pan to simmer with the other ingredients. They hissed at me while making the ultimate sacrifice, partially submerged in butter and salt, and I admired my triumph.
A few minutes later I sneezed … then coughed … then sneezed again. I blew my nose and coughed some more. Huh? That’s strange, I thought as my eyes watered and my nose flared again. Then I heard my wife sneeze from the dining room, and cough … several times. Uh oh.
We soon discovered my folly: Serrano peppers, when sautéed, emit all of their spicy goodness into the air and play havoc with the eyes, nose, and throats of aspiring amateur chefs foolish enough not to know better. I could almost swear I heard the last dying breath of the once-proud serrano as it lay in the pan: “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest…”
My advice: Don’t do that. Some things are best left on the grill.
while on the topic of spicy food ingredients
We once had a freeloading house guest. Never mind how he got there, he was a waste of human potential to say the least. We made inquiries to find him a job, but alas, he was content to sit on our sofa all day watching Ken Burns’ nine-part documentary The Civil War. Ordinarily I’d applaud a man with that kind of interest in history. Also, the fact that he enjoyed my homemade burritos the night before was nice.
But by the time Sedgwick advanced across the Rappahannock, my wife had had enough of him. While rummaging through the fridge searching for toppings for his second leftover burrito our guest made a critical error, and my wife realized an opportunity when she saw him reach for the hot sauce — but not just any hot sauce. The bottle of Dave’s Insanity Sauce. We normally only mix a drop of it in with sour cream as an enchilada ingredient.
My wife kept the warning flag in her pocket, watched him drench the plate with half of the bottle of the hottest habanero sauce I’ve ever eaten, and may or may not have made herself some popcorn with which to enjoy the show. He took one (and only one) bite. Needless to say, he never made it to the Battle of Salem Church, and my wife kicked him to the curb later that night, after a thousand glasses of water.
The lesson: Always keep a bottle of Dave’s Insanity Sauce handy. And learn how to use it.
do not read
That was the label I wrote across the cover of one of those 1980s-style composition books. You know, the black-and-white kind that most of my elementary school peers probably tossed in the corner of their room and never saw again. Yeah, I filled mine. I fervently preserved in blue ballpoint all the important information of my life, like the floor plan for the mansion I planned to build, my top-ten list of the most annoying celebrities of 1988 (either Ricki Lake or Joe Montana were at the top of the list, I believe), and all of my exploits — including the inappropriate ones.
It was that last category that caused all the trouble. I never considered my parents would ignore the warning label on the cover of that composition book. I mean, I wrote it in big block letters, I even filled them in with a cheap Bic pen’s worth of ink, drew a Jolly Roger flag underneath it, and wrote a small postscript “or else” for good measure.
It was the or else that struck the flame to the flint. I’m sure of it. In any case, Mom read all of the details, and the sit-down/sentencing hearing that followed in the living room featured a recitation of my greatest hits as well as a few additional details the interrogation managed to dislodge. The whistle was blown and other parents heard a few things in the days that followed, which relegated me to leper status in the eyes of many a neighborhood delinquent and stripped me of my lieutenant’s rank among them.
The lesson: Never put in writing something you’re not ready for others to read. Also, never bluff your mom.
now, about that kitten
If you’ve made it this far I suppose you can handle a few more details. The kitten was kind of a monster, though a beautiful one. She loved to attack the water that flowed from the bathroom faucet with those little five-millimeter talons. It was cute. She was cute, mostly, which no doubt contributed to my misplaced sense of security by allowing her to sit next to the toilet while I, you know, went.
To avoid putting any unwanted pictures in your head, I will simply say this: the cute little kitten drew blood, and left a scar. Not so serious a wound that it kept my wife from laughing — then or now — but a scar, nonetheless. Rest assured I tried to win my wife’s sympathy, but she would have none of it.
“What did you expect her to do?” she lectured me. “Gentlemen don’t do that in front of ladies.”
The lesson (I guess): Be more gentlemanly around my wife’s cat,
or,
find a tree instead.