BEET
Last week I crossed town for a very anticipated dinner of ceviche. I spotted a bag of habanero chilis on the counter. Fidgety while he toiled frantically preparing the stock, the sweet potato, I picked them up... looking at their dainty knobbly shapes and waxy skin. Assuring him that I would be fine eating it, I bit into it confidently; and due to the spice not hitting instantly, took a second bite.
It was sweet, chewy at first, bearable, then wet as saliva pooled abundantly... But soon not pleasant in the least.
ROOT
My brother’s face was flustered, red bruising his cheeks as if coming out in hives. He flapped his hands to cool his mouth. The act being purely imitative in value, it made no difference. Obviously. His mouth remained on fire. My father fell too and started coughing into his chest as Caroline placed yoghurt on the table.
I looked down at my feet dangling off the chair slightly shamefaced at not wanting to eat my dinner. This should make it more bearable, she said. My brother poured half the yoghurt up over the food, never one to waste a meal; while I had already given up after the third bite and was eating the rice on the sides without the sauce.
Dont pick at it, just bloody eat it, one of them said.
The spice on a long lost lunch somewhere on a dim holiday in Arizona, reared its head as I struggled to maintain my composure after eating the whole chilli that was meant for the ceviche or the papas, I can't remember. Caroline had bought some seasoning for chilli con carne underestimating its potency.
It felt sharp and painful, as if someone was pushing lots of little needles around my lips and tongue. Every breath renewing the tide of needles, yet the need to breath in sharp shots of air pushed me on. Leaving me no choice but to sit there as it waned, pulled away slowly.
When it was gone, which felt much longer than it probably was. There wast a slight numbness in my mouth and a feeling of satisfaction in my body. Vague elation and diffuse warmth emanating from my core.