“That’s a Little Spicy”: A Cautionary Tale of Red Pepper Flakes, Pride, and Poor Kitchen Decisions

Tonight’s dinner started like any other, with a sigh and the familiar question: What is on the menu? I hate waste, and there were some pinto beans waiting in the refrigerator. I figured they could be dressed up a little and thrown onto a low-carb tortilla with greens, cheese, and maybe a few spices.

That was odd. All I had said was a few spices, yet there it was again, a low rumble somewhere on the horizon. Perhaps storms were developing. After all, a tropical system had formed in the Gulf.

I opened the red pepper flakes.

Somewhere, thunder answered.

I needed to wait on the pepper flakes. My bride of forty-four years is not particularly fond of spice, so I would remove her portion first, then add the heat to mine and let it sit awhile.

I used one of those countertop pressure cookers to warm the beans thoroughly. I wanted enough heat to discourage any questionable characters that might have been loitering in the refrigerator.

Christina’s beans were set safely aside.

Then I reached for the red pepper flakes.

The rumble on the horizon grew louder.

That one I could feel through the floor.

Man, oh man, I hope it doesn’t flood.

I opened the garlic and added a little, followed by some smoked curry and the red pepper flakes. One tablespoon looked about right.

Eh. Maybe not.

I mixed it thoroughly and tasted it immediately. The heat was there, but barely. So I added another tablespoon. Then, for reasons known only to pride and poor judgment, I made it a heaping tablespoon.

I stirred everything well, closed the lid, and let the heat of the pot work its magic.

Once the lid was sealed, that low rumble returned. This time there may have been a faint bass line humming beneath it.

I walked to the door and looked outside. Clear skies. No rain. Just ninety-nine degrees and eighty-six percent humidity. One has to love East Texas in the summer.

I must have been hearing the train.

I washed, dried, and prepared the leafy greens. I peeled away the outer layer of the romaine, then rinsed the rest thoroughly.

The rule of the day was simple: Hey, parasites. I am taking precautions.

Sometimes I feel a little like a sheep following every warning that wanders across the pasture. Still, this particular sheep has no desire to suffer a baaaaad day in the bathroom.

Everything was ready. The vegetables were arranged on the tray, and only a few things remained: sour cream, Greek yogurt, and, of course, my fire sauce.

“Hey, gang, dinner is ready.”

We asked a blessing, then settled in. Christina took the portion I had set aside for her and built a salad. No wrap for her.

I opened the pot.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard that bass line again. I ignored it.

The aroma was fantastic. Hot beans, a touch of garlic, and now just enough spice to make itself known. My mouth began to water. This was going to be good.

Phalon and I spooned our portions of beans onto our wraps. She added cheese. I added nutritional yeast, then greens, tomato, and a little fire sauce.

Let me turn toward you, the reader, for just a moment.

Umm, hey, folks. I have never been accused of being the sharpest tack in the box. I just wanted to get that out of the way.

Just before I closed the wrap, I decided it needed one more thing.

A few more pepper flakes.

Ah, yes. Now it was perfection.

I wrapped the whole mess with surgical precision and took a large bite.

For one brief moment, there was peace.

Then I saw stars.

The rumble returned beneath my feet, and something strange began happening on top of my head. Sweat gathered across my forehead and along my newly exposed scalp. Then a dragon burst from my throat.

I chewed. I swallowed. I cannot honestly remember whether I breathed.

The gates of a volcano opened inside my mouth.

I am a tough fellow, so naturally I reached for the Greek yogurt. One tablespoon went onto my plate. Another went directly into my mouth.

After a moment, I cleared my throat and said, “That’s a little spicy.”

Tears were forming somewhere deep inside my soul.

A little spicy.

And that bass line I had been hearing all evening was now snickering.

I did what any sensible man would have done. I reached for my drink.

The trouble was, it was not a sensible drink.

I grabbed my bottle of zero-sugar ginger ale and took a great gulp.

The intensity of the heat that followed cannot be properly described. To understand what happened, eat a jalapeño with the seeds still inside, then attempt to cool your mouth with a freshly opened carbonated drink.

This was when the sweat became a river, running between my eyes and down my back.

All was not lost. I survived by eating nearly a quarter cup of Greek yogurt.

“Wow,” I said, after using two paper towels to erase the evidence rolling down my face. “That was a little spicy.”

You might think the story ends there.

No, dear reader.

I made a second wrap.

Because some men learn from the first lesson. Others require the flames to submit the paperwork twice.

 Preferably with sour cream and Greek yogurt  nearby.