Over the years, I've become quite a chilihead. The ones I tend to eat as-is are pickled - banana peppers, jalapenos, pepperoncini, etc. Nothing too stupid hot, but they give you a good kick nonetheless. There's been one pepper, though, which has eluded me for years - the hot cherry pepper. I couldn't tell you the first time I tried one, but it was love at first taste. Since that moment, I've been relentlessly tracking them down. Any new supermarket I visited, the first order of the day was to check the pickled peppers section, in the hope that they'd be there. But they never were. Ever.
Then last weekend, while searching for an Irish cheese in Kensington Market for our upcoming St. Patrick's Day dinner, my friend Maddie spotted several jars, perched on an upper shelf, out of most people's line of vision. I couldn't believe it. Grabbing one of the jars, I lifted it down and looked at it as though it were the most wondrous thing ever beheld. Sure enough, they were the real McCoy. You'd never thought such a simple find could render one so giddily ecstatic, but I was. I thanked Maddie repeatedly, to the point where my sanity was coming into question.
When I got home, I put them in the fridge right away; I wanted them to get a good chill on before I dove in. Two hours later, it was time. I set the jar on the counter and cracked it open. I reached in and picked up one of the beautiful red specimens, examining it's lusciousness before I devoured it. I couldn't wait, in it went. Crunch, crunch, chomp, smack. Perfect! A bit hotter than I recall them being, but wonderfully delicious.
I've had to limited myself to just one a day. Party because I don't want them to disappear too quickly, partly because I don't wish to be subjected to the discomfort which can occur the day after eating too many hot peppers. Nuff said.
The best news of all is that I've tracked down a local source to feed my addiction. All these years, jars upon jars of these spicy treats were but a few kilometers from my front door.
All is right with the world again.
Then last weekend, while searching for an Irish cheese in Kensington Market for our upcoming St. Patrick's Day dinner, my friend Maddie spotted several jars, perched on an upper shelf, out of most people's line of vision. I couldn't believe it. Grabbing one of the jars, I lifted it down and looked at it as though it were the most wondrous thing ever beheld. Sure enough, they were the real McCoy. You'd never thought such a simple find could render one so giddily ecstatic, but I was. I thanked Maddie repeatedly, to the point where my sanity was coming into question.
When I got home, I put them in the fridge right away; I wanted them to get a good chill on before I dove in. Two hours later, it was time. I set the jar on the counter and cracked it open. I reached in and picked up one of the beautiful red specimens, examining it's lusciousness before I devoured it. I couldn't wait, in it went. Crunch, crunch, chomp, smack. Perfect! A bit hotter than I recall them being, but wonderfully delicious.
I've had to limited myself to just one a day. Party because I don't want them to disappear too quickly, partly because I don't wish to be subjected to the discomfort which can occur the day after eating too many hot peppers. Nuff said.
The best news of all is that I've tracked down a local source to feed my addiction. All these years, jars upon jars of these spicy treats were but a few kilometers from my front door.
All is right with the world again.
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