The Native Iowan

Some love em. Others hate em. Some have yet to be initiated into the fold. Some think they can. Try real hard. Run with the big guns. Then bail. A burning ring of ignoble glory. They’re good for your blood steam. Heal stomach ulcers. Grow wild as weeds. In some countries, are used as currency

Hot chili peepers. I love ‘em. Am addicted to ‘em. Eat ‘em on everything. Make my own: Sauces. Chutneys. Powders. You name it. If’n it’s got chili. I make it. I invented chili coffee. I season martinis with chili soaked olives and onions. If you cain’t eat it with chili. It ain’t fit to be et.

If that’s true why’s my head spinning? My mouth burning? I was going to have a simple meal. Green salad. A handful of fresh, bird’s eye chilies. Crush the chilies up with a spoon. Mix ‘em: With a bit of olive oil. Brown vinegar. Mayonnaise. Shake it up real good. Pour it on. Rich. Creamy.

Throw on a can of chili tuna… For good measure. Mix it all. Fresh greens. Tomatoes. Bell peppers. Onions. Spring onions. Ginger. Garlic… enough… Don’t wanna over do it. Mix ‘em up. Stir it good. Smash up the big chilies that come in the tuna. Break up the big chunks of fish. One more stir…

Looks fantastic. Fit for a picture. A culinary treat. Various shades of green. Red, juicy slices of tomato. White slices of onion. Tiny slivers of red chili. Creamy white dressing. Could rival any fancy – schmancy cooking. MMMM… looks great. Smells better… Take a forkful. Chew it slowly. Savor the flavors. And watch your head explode.

Boy. That’s good. Hot. Reminds of being in Thailand. Love Thai cooking. Love it hot. Thought I’d impress the folks at the restaurant. Ordered my favorite… Tum Yum soup. Told ‘em to make it “Thai” Spicy. A big bowl comes out. Filled with juicy prawns. A red, viscous, oily tinge to it. Loaded with chilies.

I was sweating bullets… just touching the spoon. It was soooo gooood. The Thais stood, watching. One asked me if I really liked it. My wife explained that I was crazy. It was a big bowl. I enjoyed it but had trouble staying conscience. The staff brought out cold, wet towels. Wrapped my sweating head.

My wife was embarrassed. Was very angry with me. Sitting there. The staff wringing towels out in bowels of ice. Wrapping them, like a turban, around my head. Me slurping away on my bowl of soup. My clothes soaked with sweat. My young son, loving the attention. I couldn’t talk real well. She wasn’t happy.

To make it worse. We were at an outside, beer garden type place. I think a crowd was gathering. I couldn’t focus too well. They may have been looking at, gawking at, something else. I’m not sure. I think I heard, through the buzzing in my ears, someone making book on my chances of survival.

A couple Thai fellows came over. Bought me beers. One had driven us around. Spoke English. Knew my son. Was friendly. I gave him a bowl of soup. He said it was good. Didn’t sweat. Didn’t need an icy turban. This made my wife angrier. She appeared to think that I was faking it all.

My salad reminds me. That soup. Bangkok. Having fun… Musta drank a dozen beers. But it sure was good. I suffered the next day. My son enjoyed the story. My wife enjoyed it too. Though she did have to pretend to be angry. Just another one of those many stories. Collected. Stored. Told. Now written.