Hot Sauce

Christopher was a crack baby.

Well, not exactly a crack baby. Instead of smoking crack while he was in the womb, Christopher's mother bombarded her fetus with spicy foods; ensuring a lifetime addiction hot sauce.

Like his mother, Chris is an excellent cook. Also like his mother, Chris has lost all taste bud sensation. “Mild” and “Medium” are frequently scoffed at in favor of “Burn Your Face Off” or “Flaming Red Asshole”. Now, I suffer the consequences.

Every meal Chris prepares for us is ripe with chipotle powder, chili powder or ground red pepper. He is a master at justifying putting a little more “seasoning” on the hashbrowns by claiming they are still too bland or that they need a little more kick. I have learned that every meal must be accompanied with an extinguisher: milk, fruit or some other neutralizer to put out fire in the mouth.

When Chris visited my family around Christmas time last year, he was greeted with open arms and bloody marys. My father, having always been the master of spice when I was growing up, proudly asked Christopher if he wanted any Spontaneous Combustion (once my brother put a drop of Spontaneous Combustion on the end of a toothpick and made me lick it. I cried for an hour) in his drink. Christopher eagerly accepted, agreeing to handle as many drops as my father. When my dad returned, drink in hand, he proudly warned Chris to “watch out”. Christopher took a drink, frowned and told me it was hardly at his level. Being as he did not want to choke down something so pitifully unspicy, Christopher asked for some more hot sauce. This came as a great challenge to my dad and wanting to match Chris' threshold, nearly keeled over from hot sauce overdose.

For Christopher's past birthday, we went to Tortuga's, a small seafood restaurant in Longmont. When we were seated at the table, he practically peed his pants upon seeing Pete's Heat, Tortuga's exclusive hot sauce. “This is the best hot sauce I have ever tasted,” he told me.

We returned to Tortuga's a few weeks later just for the sole purpose of hot sauce. “Four bottles, please,” he said as we walked upstairs to the bar, leaving me to wait for the sauce to be bottled. Just before the hostess returned with four bottles, Chris came downstairs and placed three more bottles of hijacked hot sauce in the purse. Now I was an accomplice in fueling his addiction.

Currently, there are ten bottles of hot sauce in the kitchen, one in the glove compartment and one in my purse.