Wholly ghost

So m'friend John grew ghost peppers (that's Bhut Jolokia to you), and he was kind enough to gift me a couple of the fruits.

Ahem.

I am being ... well. Quite surprisingly careful, in the circumstances. But m'wife is out for the day; so m'lunch for today consisted of the last of the meat I could pick off the sheep's head, mixed with some leftover rice and fried up with a chopped shallot and just a half-inch tip of one ghost pepper. Which I chopped very finely, and washed my hands after in ferociously hot water with lots of soap and more than once (for I am a man who rubs my eyes sometimes, and, y'know). And I even remembered to scrub the chopping-block after. Scrupulous, I tell you.

I am also charmed to tell you that my head did not explode and no sheep will be eating my brains today. I think half an inch (with no seeds and no membrane worth speaking of) was about right: it was deliciously hot, but not stupid. Indeed, I have eaten hotter dishes; the four-scotch-bonnet chilli of blessed memory was certainly hotter than this. But that needed four scotch bonnets, seeds and all, and lots of time to achieve its wonder. This was quite delightfully quick.

And yes, of course I'm planning an escalation for next time. Testing to destruction: it's a well-established principle.

Also, I'm hoping to save some of the seeds and see if they'll grow next year.

The perils of presumption

So I was not expecting m'wife home before ten tonight (and quite reasonably so, as that's the time she told me); and I was wholly unclear whether to expect Jean & Roger, back from exploring the wines of the gold country on the fringes of the fire; so I roasted a lovely great slab of pork belly with a rub of fennel seed and chilli, and as no one had shown up or called by eight I was just going to make myself a sammich, so I threw together a quick salsa of shallot and garlic and tomato and the rest of that ghost pepper*; and I had the bread sliced and everything - and suddenly the boys are running to the windows, as they do when Karen's car comes home. And there was she, home early: and no, I cannot feed m'wife on ghost pepper salsa. So now I am making a bed of Puy lentils, and soon my pork must lie in it. And then Jean and Roger are coming round, with or without appetites, and there will be tales told of mountains bold and seeking gold** and such.


*People, I have tasted it. I expected to survive. That may have been the limit of my expectation, but survival, oh yes.

**Or wine.