Once Burned

Dearest Rachel –

All too often, when we would bring home a certain local foodstuff from one or another of our travels, it would get lost in the back of the pantry and just go stale or otherwise bad. Sometimes, it would be due to a fear of never be able to have it again – a ridiculous rationale, since it wound up with us never being able to enjoy it in the first place. Other times, it would just disappear in the clutter of the pantry itself and get forgotten; an unfortunate but not unexpected fate, given how much we normally had stored up (and which, with Jan’s help, I had to ultimately get rid of).

And then, there have been things that we just didn’t know what to do with, or how to utilize them properly. Such was the case with yesterday’s dinner, a supposedly authentic chicken masala, using a spice mix obtained directly from the markets of Mumbai.

To be sure, this time it wasn’t a case of a lack of confidence in my abilities – but it probably should have been. What instructions there are on this packet, as it so happens, are written in Hindi; not only is it a language I don’t understand, but the Sanskrit characters render it that much more unintelligible.

Still, I thought it would be as easy as adding a quantity of the spice mix to a skillet of chicken, much like I might do with a packet of taco seasoning (and which I intend to do over the next couple of days). Stir them together until the chicken is well coated, and serve piping hot on a trencher of naan bread. It seemed like simplicity itself to assemble.

The reality was rather different, however. First of all, the packet was substantially larger than any one of taco spices I’d ever purchased or used, so I had to judge by eye how much spice I was pouring in, as opposed to using the whole thing. Secondly – and this is something that’s only crossing my mind now as I’m telling you about it – even a sachet of taco spices usually call for a pound of meat; the can of chicken meat amounted to barely half that, once you factor out the liquid in the can (which, to be fair, I also left in the skillet, as I thought the spices would mix with it to create a sort of sauce). So I probably should have put in half as much spice as I did, especially since, once I was stirring it in Daniel’s presence, we both agreed that it didn’t look like much, in terms of quantity. At that moment, though, we thought that if we were still hungry after our first helping, we could mix up another batch, and modify it based on what we thought of the first effort. Maybe add some butter to create more of a sauce, or perhaps some garlic for additional flavor.

There would, however, be no second attempt; even with more bread than meat, the spices were overwhelming, and painfully strong. I could feel myself sweating from the top of my head, and Daniel admitted to it being painful to eat – although we both agreed that it wasn’t quite an immediate sensation. The first couple of bites were strong, but not completely intolerable, but once the spices made their presence known, it was like fighting a battle to finish our meal. I went through a couple of large glasses of ice water in the process, and I’m not sure how Daniel combatted the pain, but we eventually managed to clear our plates. But despite the relatively small portions, we were in no mood to try again. Indeed, I just heated up the other pieces of naan, which we ate to ‘wash down’ the intense flavor of the curry and peppers.

Daniel, in between gasps, wondered along how – and why – those on the subcontinent dealt with consuming heat like this as a regular part of their diet. The same thought has occurred to me in the past, albeit regarding Thai food (which you’ve known since college I’ve had no love for, although the story runs a bit deeper than just the intense heat of their native cuisine – being essentially trolled by one’s tour guide regarding one’s inability to handle it contributes greatly to one’s loathing of such dishes). I get that these peppers are what grow in the climate, and the people there long since decided to make the best of it; and I understand that sweating actually serves to cool a body down, as counterintuitive as that may appear to be. But there’s a certain level of heat where there isn’t any flavor to the food, just heat. Why anyone would subject themselves to this voluntarily escapes our ability to understand – although perhaps one isn’t supposed to put as much in as I did.

On the plus side, this means that whatever spices go into today’s taco mix are going to seem positively mild – and presumably, we’ll be able to taste the food, rather than simply getting our tongues seared in the process – so we’ll be able to enjoy our meal so much better tonight in comparison. Indeed, we’ll probably be able to enjoy our food for the rest of the week that much better for having endured the experience, and put it behind us.

That said, I honestly have no idea what I’m going to do with the rest of this stuff. There’s quite a lot of it left – as I said, it’s considerably larger than a taco seasoning packet, so what I used probably wasn’t any more than a quarter of what it contained – but we’re rather intimidated by the stuff at this point. I’m sure incorporating butter or cheese into a future attempt would be an improvement – butter or ghee is a staple in Indian cuisine, and in any event, dairy products are one of the best counters against capsaicin-based heat – and maybe some garlic for flavor, assuming I can tone down the spice level. I’ve also been told that Honduran food is like Mexican, but with a lot less spice; maybe I could use just a bit of this to give their stuff a little more kick (and help decrease my stock of it in the bargain).

But no matter what I choose to do with it, I have to treat in carefully, almost as if it were dangerous. And why not? After all, once burned, twice shy.

So with that having been said, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. Given my track record, it’s clear that I’ll need it.