Confessions of an Arsonist
Our favourite Spanish Tapas dish is definitely Padron Peppers; those small, green peppers fried in olive oil and served covered in flakes of sea salt. I'm salivating as I describe them. They are usually mild to the taste but occasionally you place one in your mouth to find it tingles as if chewing a chilli pepper; it's a game of chance or Russian roulette.
Mister E and I enjoy them so much that in recent years I have taken to growing them in the greenhouse. The success of the crop varies from year to year.
This year I planted 10 seeds and all grew into substantial plants bearing healthy peppers. Perhaps we should have harvested them earlier or maybe it was the specific combination of heat, light and water that they received, but this year finding a mild one is like looking for a white cat in a snowstorm.
Some of us have less sensitive mouths than others, so whilst Mister E can tuck them away regardless and the youngest one or two a sitting, I sampled only one initially and two weeks later am still bathing the burns in yoghurt.
With an abundance of peppers to spare (and strangely the youngest declined the invitation to take a bag of them back to London with her) we decided to serve them up to family visiting for a socially distanced evening on our patio. Have you ever seen your relatives' eyes pour with tears when they are not crying and simultaneously witnessed their mouths combust in front of you? I am ashamed to say that I now have.
The fire extinguisher didn't seem an entirely appropriate antidote and in the absence of the yoghurt that I'd completely utilised on my own first aid, glasses of water were quickly passed round and downed. Flames doused, the conversation never quite resumed its intensity; I guess it is hard talking with a barbecued tongue.
Mea culpa.
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