by Kris
For years I loved everything about the Southwest and moving here to Arizona is a dream come true. I loved the stark splendor of the landscape, its forever skies, the natural beauty of the crafts, the warmth of the people. I loved everything about it — except for the food.
When it came to food, I used to have strict rules about anything spicy. If it gave off any tantalizing aroma, I avoided it. If it created any sensation in my mouth, I never ate it again. And anything that raised my temperature even to normal was strictly verboten. Hey, it wasn't my fault. I was born to an Irish mother in New Jersey of all places, where I was taught to consider boiled cabbage a gourmet delight.
Okay, so maybe I did take too far. "She's a picky eater," my mother would explain to yet another offended hostess, while I whined, "Mom, this is really hot," as I scraped the offending sprinkle of paprika off the potato salad.
I might have gone on like that forever, had I not overheard my husband joking with a friend before we took our first Arizona house-hunting trip. "How is Kris going to survive there? She still doesn't eat spicy food, does she?" the friend asked. "Of course she doesn't!" my husband cried. "If she tried it, I'd have to bury her there." So, everyone knew I was a 98-degree weakling. But even wimps have some pride. Before I moved there, I decided, I would try blistering Southwestern cuisine.
Our first meal was just a snack of nachos. "This is really hot," I cried to my husband. My first time out and I was choking. I wanted my mommy and her awful boiled dinner. My back was to the wall. I feared if I didn't go out trying I would never be able to face myself again. I rallied my courage and moved on to dinner. I threw caution to the wind and ordered a New Mexican dish called Carne Adovada. How bad could it be?
One bite and my whole life changed. For one thing, I didn't have to worry about those pesky brain cells creating any more food rules. The top of my head had just been blown into the hereafter. My mouth exploded in flames. My body melted.
But you know, it wasn't bad. Bad nothing — it was great! Where had they been keeping that stuff? "This is really hot!" I sang to anyone who would listen.
My poor husband misunderstood and looked like he thought it was going to be a long life. "All right," he said with a sigh. "I'll change dinners with you. Mine isn't hot at all." He reached for my plate.
Having spent my formative years glued to TV westerns finally paid off. In a flash, I stabbed the interloper's hand with my fork. "My darling," I said tenderly. "Try that again and it'll be your heart." But I did give him a few tastes of my dinner, just so I could watch his eyes melt.
I stared death by chili in the face and found if you gotta go, that's the way to do it. But more than just my taste in food changed that night. I shed my inhibitions. Shed, nothing — I burned them out. I now stand at the top of life's mountain eager for whatever waits ahead of me, no longer crying, "But I thought this was a beginner's run."
I've also left my husband's taste buds in the dust. "You think this is hot?" I now ask across the kitchen table. "Hah! Next time I'll make it even hotter." I insist, watching the sweat run from his pores, while I barely produce a glow. I experienced a trial by fire that night and lived to tell about it.
Now if I could only learn to swim in cool water. ("This is really cold.") But what's life without challenges?
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