Cracked out on capsicum


“I am going to make dinner,” my mother announced.

The news was highly unusual on many levels. For starters, I don’t think she had attempted to make dinner since about 1982 (not that we minded, we actually were the ones who asked her to stop.) But perhaps even more remarkable was her menu choice. Not the standard casserole/hot dish/goulash you’d expect from a solid Midwesterner with English and Irish roots. Seems her recent tour of the Southwest and impending move to Arizona had stimulated her appetite for exotic fare.

“I’m going to make chicken tacos,” she continued. “With homemade salsa.”

OK, to those of us fortunate enough to live within burrito-throwing distance of several authentic Mexican eateries, tacos may seem like no great feat – the Durango equivalent of a pb&j. But for those coming from the vast Mexican food void that is middle America, where salsa is nothing more than watered-down ketchup, it seems a little, well, foreign.

Anyway, far be it from me to stop the woman once her mind is made up. And who knew, maybe her culinary skills had improved beyond those years when microwaved Fritos with mozzarella cheese were considered “nachos.” Plus, I was just happy to have someone else doing the cooking, hell, even microwaving, for a change. So I gladly bid her adios on her culinary journey.

Surprisingly enough, she returned from the shopping mission successful, even able to distinguish and select jalapeño peppers all by herself. I must say, I was proud to see her taking the chile by the seeds, so to speak, and not giving in to say, a lesser Big Jim or Anaheim, or god forbid, bell. See, if there’s one thing I’ve learned is sacred in these parts, it’s the chile pepper (or “chili,” depending on your level of gringoization.) Sometime around late August, the locals start to get this wistful, almost glassy look in their eyes. The one day, like the first big dump of the winter or that first crocus of spring, there it is: the smell of roasting chile wafting through the air. High on charred chile flesh and smoked capsicum, their saliva glands kick into overdrive, and those throngs of otherwise sane, mild-mannered and laid-back locals – the same ones who have yet to take down their Christmas lights or put away the raft “just in case” – are gripped with a do-or-die purpose in life.

Of course, where you satisfy your urge is up to the individual – everywhere from the Supercenter That Shall not be Named to the Farmer’s Market to more covert operations. Hell, I even bought some out of the trunk of a Grand Torino from a lady named Betty from Chimayo. (“The sheemayo chile is much better than Hatch,” she promised in whispered tones as I surveyed the goods in a local parking lot. “A thinner skin and much more flavor.”) Like a junkie in need of a quick fix, I handed her my wad of sweaty dollar bills and took my stash, as well as a dozen tamales and a cantaloupe, just to be on the safe side.

Of course, my dalliance with Betty was only the start. A few days later, I found myself ogling the large plastic trash bags at the Farmer’s Market. “They’re already all spoken for,” I was told when I inquired as to their fate. “Come back next week.”

“But I only want a few,” I pleaded, as their scent teased my olfactories, “just to get me by.”

“Sorry,” was all I heard.

So, the next Saturday, I arose at an obscenely early hour, slipped into my jeans and flip flops and stole out of the still-sleeping household. I had been told by a less-than reliable source that I had to be in line at the chile stand by 8 a.m. to get my order in. I rode my bike quickly through the freezing morning air and empty streets. Flushed and flustered, I arrived to find the roasters hadn’t even been fired up. I was told to come back at 8, when the opening bell rang. Slightly embarrassed that I, the girl who has never been early to anything in her life, was actually at the Farmer’s Market before the farmers, I took a seat on the curb next to another chileholic. “I got here at 7,” she told me as I got comfortable on the cold concrete. For the next half hour, we swapped chile war stories – triumphant victories and stinging defeats.

“My boyfriend got some from (insert name of Supercenter here) but they were totally bland,” she said. “I was desperate, but I’ll never do that again.”

“I know how you feel,” I confided, “last year, I ran out in January.”

We both shuddered at the thought of a chile-less winter: so cold, so devoid of joy.

As luck would have it, the bell soon sounded, but before we could walk the 5 feet to the table, hordes of chileheads converged upon the small stand. From parked cars, behind trees, under rocks, beneath manhole covers they materialized, mobbing the table, checkbooks waving and money flying. “I’d wear it as cologne if I could,” I heard one man comment behind me. Eventually, I was able to elbow my way to good standing, plunk down my hard-earned cash for a bushel of medium and a half bushel of hot and tote my precious cargo home.

Of course, if you would have told me 10 years ago that I would spend $40 and the better part of a weekend seeding, peeling and chopping two hefty bags of green chile, I would have told you that you were the one with the substance problem. Well, needless to say, stranger things have happened, and I now have a quite a substantial green stash.

So naturally, you can see why I was a bit comforted to see my own mother perhaps following in my footsteps toward chile dependence. First the salsa, then maybe a stew or posole and next thing you know, we’re talking huevos, enchiladas and relleños.

Anyway, back to the dinner, where I had I left her to her work, not wanting to ruin her “fist time.” I checked back a few hours later, to find the kitchen empty. “She had to go to the drug store,” my husband informed me when I inquired as to her whereabouts. “She burned her fingers on the peppers.”

Ahh, the dreaded Scoville sting. A mere tickle for well-seasoned veterans such as myself, but for a greenhorn such as herself, we’re talking third-degree burns.

She eventually returned with 10 bandaged digits and a small apothecary of dressings, salves and lotions. Throughout the night, we tried them all, as well as a cheap beer soak, an expensive beer soak and a sour cream soak. Fortunately, I was able to salvage the tacos and salsa from ruin, but I was not so sure about her hopes for chile greatness.

“Sorry, I should have warned you to wear gloves,” I tired to console her as she swirled her raw and burnt fingers in a bath of organic yogurt and ice cubes. “Consider it an initiation into the Southwest. Besides, it could have been much worse. It could have been habañero.”

– Missy Votel