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June 20, 2006

southern discomfort

Here is a reprint of an article I wrote in May of 2002.

THEY'RE GOOD KIDS. They'll get it sorted out. That's what the parents of those of us in hab-rehab are saying now. It's touching that they continue to believe in us, even as the group sessions fail to provide the level of intervention we really need. There is a downward slide here, and nobody wants to talk about it.

Take last night for instance. Good company, good weather, some darned good gualsa* and, inevitably, that little baggie of dried habañeros which nobody seems to know anything about. It was high-grade stuff, and no one objected to the "help yourself" atmosphere which comfortingly tucked us into easygoing conversations about things we never otherwise discuss. Like the social addicts we are, however, we never strayed very far from the topic of these butt-ugly wrinkled brown treasures we were passing around.

Maybe I'm still in denial about my level of involvement, but I still don't own a lot of the paraphernalia. So someone improvised a pestle using a saucer and a ball jar. As the peppers were broken down into something between chunks and powder, any remaining ice between the conversationalists gathered there in my apartment was broken down into congenial chunks of good natured deference. Everybody took a hit, even those who hadn't experimented with habañeros before.

We were all adults there, and yet I felt a poignant fatherly impulse toward my guests which was wrenched into true remorse when I saw the face of one friend of mine after she took a serious hit of the stuff. She was weeping, eyes nearly swollen shut, and her face was a twisted mask of exhilaration and just-been-stung-by-40-bees pain.

Then my own endorphin rush came in a fiery chariot and gathered me up into a stolen athletic bliss, but it was too late. The angry white seed of doubt had lodged between between my teeth, and it was burning a hole in my proverbial lip. Were we out of control?

Of course, there is nothing controlled about the morning after. The last remnant of my hot-sauce bravado evaporated amid the smoke and thunder of my first bout with the White-Hot Squirts. I have never seriously considered getting a bidet, but if one could be equipped to dispense super-cooled novacaine, while simultaneously administering a morphine injection, I would go into hock to buy one right now.

Scatalogical evidence notwithstanding, I now realize that my body has failed to metabolize or even chemically alter the hellspawned oil of the habañero. The worst part is that I know it is far from over. Now there is a distinct preference for standing over sitting. Later there will be cursing, oaths, and finally, promises made. Now is the time for a caring loved one to extract a covenant from me to never, never, never do this again. Now, should a persuasive friend argue down my stubborn resistances and help me on to the conclusion which my anatomy is already screaming from the housetops: friends don't let friends do habañeros.

*A cocktail of salsa and guacamole.

See also "Grok My Heed: Weapons-grade Peppers.

Posted by joel at June 20, 2006 01:48 PM

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