Tacos are in my top five favorite foods. My family and I celebrate Taco Tuesday nearly every week. I watch cooking shows with my mother to develop new ideas on how I can experiment with creating new taco concoctions. Some of my new taco ideas have been a great success; some have caused others to become nearly sick. To avoid people declining to eat my new taco concoctions, I stopped telling them what the ingredients were and relied on a “trust me you will like it” tasting model. Unfortunately, trust has eroded from my core taste test group. They have been reluctant to try my latest creations over a few minor mishaps that, in my eyes, were way overblown and resulted in two weeks of dine out Taco Tuesdays. The timing was not lost on me and I fully understood my family’s attempt to distance themselves from my cooking. Nonetheless, I have welcomed the opportunity to explore new taco places.
During our last outing I had an experience that will forever shape my life. We ordered tacos from a local fast casual restaurant, and I excused myself to visit the salsa station to load up on some of my favorite salsas. When I returned I poured all my attention into mixing the different salsas to make the perfect blend. Our food finally arrived, and I began devouring my chicken tacos as if I had not eaten in weeks. My father advised me to slow down. I agreed to comply with the request as I needed to refill my salsa containers anyway. I excused myself again and reloaded the salsa containers. I selected a few new ones solely based on the bright colors of Colorado red and blossom green. I had never had the red and green salsas before and decided to pour both of them on my chicken taco, forgoing a taste test. I was still hungry and wanted to begin eating immediately again. I bit down and chewed once when the first blast of fire seared my tongue and the back of my throat. My eyes began to water as a leaned forward to deposit the hottest food on the face of the earth out of my mouth and onto a napkin. However, removing the food from my mouth alone did not address the problem; the feeling of fire persisted even after the food had exited. I let out a scream for help as loud as I could. I could not bear another minute with the inferno blazing in my mouth. My parents were aware that something was wrong when I removed the food from my mouth. They tried to consul me as the rest of the restaurant stared at us intently as if there was a much larger problem playing out.
My father picked me up and held me while he asked if I had eaten something hot. Between crying and drooling from the heat of the food I mumbled “yes”. My father offered a slip of his water, which I accepted, but the cold water was not soothing the pain I was experiencing. A concerned patron came to our table to inquire if they could help, which my father later referred to as Cat Lady. My parents explained the situation and assured the woman that they had everything under control. The woman lingered silently in front of our table as if she did not believe my parents. In an effort to dismiss the woman my father reengaged the woman asking if there was anything further that needed to be discussed. The women responded “No” but continued to stay. My father responded, “As previously mentioned, he ate a hot pepper and we can say with a high degree of confidence he is going to be alright. In the event things change, you will be the first person we’ll talk to for further guidance.” The personal guarantee that she would be consulted further if needed seemed to satisfy whatever reservation she had internally developed in her mind and she then returned to her table.
My mother and father exchanged ideas on how to remedy the situation; meanwhile, I agonized in fiery pain. It was just my luck that the restaurant did not have milk, which was identified as a product that can help with a burning mouth. My father hugged me tight and said, “We are going to have to just wait this out.” I thought, “Is he nuts? My mouth is on fire and requires immediate action! Call the fire department if needed. And what is this “we” business? I am the person suffering.” After a few minutes the fiery pain began to dissipate, and I could begin speaking without the fear of drooling everywhere. I began questioning my parents why anyone would want to eat such a retched thing. My father explained that he enjoyed hot salsa but it is a taste better suited for an adult to enjoy. I stared at him blankly. “Why would you purposely hurt yourself?”, I asked. My father tried to explain that there are certain grownups that are able to tolerate very hot things and actually like the taste and accompanying burning sensation. It boggled my mind that anyone would intentionally put themselves through that self-destruction. I then inquired, “Does it burn as much coming out too?” My father was not prepared for my question, but contemplated his response primarily based on personal experience. He then replied, “It can.” Well, I had heard enough. Anyone willing to put themselves through that on both ends of the spectrum was not sane.
As we gathered our belongings to leave the restaurant we were abruptly interrupted by a familiar face. Cat Lady had reemerged seeking to be debriefed on the final events. My father was visibly annoyed and did not want to discuss the matter further. Cat Lady continued to express her concern claiming I could have fire in my stomach from eating the hot sauce. This revelation had me spooked. I began to weigh in on the conversation when my father rudely cut me off. He later explained that he understood that the path of least resistance with Cat Lady was to go along with whatever idea she was seeking to present. My father replied, “Yes we understand, and we are going to the emergency immediately to address this situation.” Cat Lady offered to follow us to the hospital, which my father quickly dismissed. My father said her services would be better used at the restaurant in the event there was another fire mouth incident. To my surprise, she bought the explanation. We quickly moved past her then and rushed to the car. Sitting in the car for a brief second we all reflected on the surreal events that just happened. My father proclaimed that Taco Tuesday was going to be held at home next week and we would be open to eating whatever tacos creations I wanted. I knew they would come around to wanting my tacos again; I just did not know it would be driven by the wild events that took place that Taco Tuesday.