One of my modest chili pepper bushes

I grow chili and cayenne peppers in my small modest garden. I love to watch them grow, first green, then orange and then finally fire red.

Today, I had crops from both bushes ready for harvesting.

There is one important fact that one must bear in mind picking peppers; wash your hands before having a pee.

I learned this the hard way.

In NZ we don’t have chili nor cayenne peppers, at least I have never seen them there. We have the capsicum (bell pepper), but not the hot varieties.

It wasn’t until I came to Brazil that I met ‘real’ peppers.

Brazilians have a jar or bottle of pimenta malageta (chili peppers) in olive oil on the table at every meal (breakfast excluded) much as we westerners have a pepper shaker with white pepper.

Our smoker

Our smoker

But it was in Bolivia, c1999, that I learned my lesson. I was a cook in an American BBQ restaurant called Cowboys  in a small plaza in Santa Cruz de la Sierra.

We served great smoked ribs and various other dishes; one of which was hot beans. We smoked our own meat and cooked our own beans. The beans called for a bag of dried peppers in a 30 litre pot. I’m not sure what kind of peppers, but they were about 8cm (4″) long and they were added to the pot during the cooking.

Soon after adding the peppers to the pot I needed relief. No problem, the beans were on a simmer, so off to the bathroom.

It was soon after my return to the kitchen, that I began to get a strange sensation in the lower region. This strange feeling began to intensify gradually until it was evident that my manhood was on fire.

I soon realised what I had done.

I tried washing the affected parts, I tried cold water, I tried ice cubes in my underpants while dancing in a demented frenzy around the kitchen all the while trying to keep a steady supply of dishes for the dining room. Believe me, that’s no easy task when you are more worried about your manhood than food; and whether it will ever function again.

My boss, who doubled as barman and waiter, caught me dancing a fire maddened fling around the kitchen. I explained the reason for my antics, and he left the kitchen with the ready dish laughing his head off.

I, however, didn’t think it was funny, not in the least.

The kitchen closed at midnight, I had spent an agonising six hours, and then I limped home, a twenty minute walk, a much wiser man, with a still warm, tingling sensation in the nether regions.

My advice to any man who handles raw peppers, WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE GOING FOR A PEE!

Must blog along.

Later.

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