BCD'S BURNING SENSATION:The Horrors of Jalapeno Handsby Kristen
A card-carrying Irish Catholic, I’ve subsisted most of my life on meat, potatoes, and vegetables boiled beyond recognition. Until recently, my spice tolerance went from white bread (bland) to wheat bread (blistering), and garlic salt, cinnamon, and “burnt” were the only flavors making guest appearances on my food. That all changed about two years ago, when in an effort to drop some extra pounds, I started learning how to cook. Since then, I’ve enjoyed multiple homemade curried parsnip soups, a plethora of citrus-marinated fish, and more chutneys and salsas than I can count. Best of all, though, has been the chili.
I hated chili growing up, but maturity and a developing passion for cumin has made it edible, even severely desirable. Since it no longer makes me want to blow chunks, I’ve spent months concocting every variety imaginable – three-bean turkey chili, black bean chili, and even Barefoot Contessa’s red chicken chili, the taste of which cannot be accurately described in mere words.
Which brings us to the night of February 13th, 2007.
Cooks Illustrated, the magazine world’s culinary bible, featured a drool-inducing recipe for Southwestern White Chicken Chili, a lighter chili variation appropriate for year-round consumption. Chock full of roasted poultry, exotic peppers, and of course, cumin, this particular version looked to be the Holy Grail of its breed. So I hit up Whole Foods, whipped out my Henckels chef’s knife, and went to town.
The recipe called for nine chili peppers of three varieties – poblano, Anaheim, and jalapeno. I had never worked with the first two, but jalapenos were often main ingredients in my salsas, and had never given me problems before. Oblivious to their inherent danger (especially in numbers), I made the mistake of chopping, dicing, and mincing all nine peppers barehanded.
An hour later, while the chili was simmering down, my hands started to swell.
An hour after that, I had to stop doing the dishes. The hot water was bothering the pads on my fingers.
An hour after that, about 11:00pm, I couldn’t touch anything without wanting to cry.
Many years ago, a few days after I was voted Smithtown Wendy’s June 1995 Employee of the Month, I absent-mindedly reached for a bacon pan that had come straight from a 500 degree oven. Once my skin blistered and my rubber gloves melted to my fingers, I realized that was a very, very bad idea. Having Jalapeno Hands felt kind of like that.
Around midnight, hands aflame, I popped four aspirin and tried to go to bed. Wasn’t happening. I couldn’t lie down for ten minutes without wanting to machete my arms off. To alleviate the burning, I tried running my hands under cold water, holding them to an ice pack, sticking them in the freezer, swabbing them with rubbing alcohol, and finally, dipping them in melted frozen yogurt. Nothing worked. I spent the rest of the night sitting upright, wrist-deep in mug of melted ice cubes, watching reruns of Growing Pains.
Kirk Cameron? Not as cute as I remembered.
The next morning was Valentines Day, and Beloved Roommate (god bless her) awoke around 9:00am. Once she got a load of my condition, she trudged (through a snowstorm) to the local drug store and procured 50 Motrin along with a family-size bottle of spray aloe. A few popped pills and a lotion-dousing later, I knuckled out an e-mail to my boss:
“Hey M,
I learned a very special lesson last night: never chop jalapenos barehanded. Apparently, when their oils get on skin, they cause a reaction not unlike a chemical burn.
Exciting.
I think I might work from home today, at least until the swelling goes down.
P.S. I am the biggest jackass ever.”
The Motrin and salve began to kick in around 11:00am, and I tried sleeping again. This time, it worked. Intermittent e-mail checks not included, I passed out for four fantastic hours. And when I woke, I was sticky with aloe, but seemingly cured - except, that is, when I tried to touch warm-ish things, like a cup of coffee.
Or the shower faucet.
Or my face.
The burning subsided completely around 8pm, so Valentines Day was a bit of a wash. Boyfriend came through in spades, but there could be no fooling around, lest my Jalapeno Hands set his privates on fire. (I wish that was a clever double entendre, but it’s not.)
In the end, I count this as a culinary experience; one of the many burns, cuts, and strains necessary for total kitchen dominance. Though I suspect there are many more in store, this will no doubt be the dumbest, and hopefully the most scorchingly, stingingly, hugely awful. (Not that I'm a wimp or anything.)
As for the chili, I had some for lunch today. It was delicious, though I might ask someone else to wash the dish.
BCD'S POLITICAL FLASHBACK: REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION, DAY 4 by KristenIt was a time of hope and sweet denial...
...of Eddie Bauer V-necks and leopard-print kerchiefs...
...of Laura Bush's single, comforting facial expression ("sedated") and Arnold Schwarzenegger's hilarious plays on words (“Osama is a Predatuh who needs a Total Recall, but Junior will surely turn him into The Running Man.”).
Of course, I speak of the 2004 Republican National Convention.
Flash back with me now, as we revisit Manhattan in that fateful September.
And remember - when in doubt, Jason Sehorn is a marginally better speaker-for-hire than he was cornerback for the Giants.
We begin...
~~~
The caravan I saw from my balcony while we were on the phone last night – I’m almost positive it was the President being escorted into Manhattan. Nothing else explains 50 cop cars and three helicopters on the L.I.E. at 9pm, unless Billy Joel’s been drinking again. (Hey-yo! I’m here all week folks.) My theory is that Bush has been in Queens the whole time, staying at the one place other New Yorkers are least likely to be in September – Shea Stadium.
Stupid Marlins.
Anyway, I walked to 34th St. last night to see if there would be any righteous indignation crowding the streets around MSG. Instead, I found about 400 cops, 10 square blocks of portable metal fencing, and a couple zillion shoppers trying to get to Old Navy for No-Tax Week. Regular pedestrians were restricted to the sidewalks (by threat of arrest), but delegates were allowed to roam freely, presumably so they could further bespoil our fine city with American-flag Izods and caviar-stained chinos. I’m glad the cops are shielding the RNC-ers against a populace they obviously have no wish to actually interact with.
Now that I know how to spot conventioneers (they’re wearing Olympic-style press passes), it’s become apparent that delegates can be easily spliced into two groups: those who claim Barbie and Ken as their parents, and those who’ve been beaten repeatedly, possibly to unconsciousness, with the Ugly Stick. There’s no in-between on the Attract-o-meter. The younger women look like Swedish stewardesses, replete with pressed navy blue business suits and immovable blonde Brinkley (Christie, not David) hair, while ladies 35-and-older appear to have been birthed from the unholy union of Leona Helmsley and Chewbacca. This became incredibly apparent last night during the Miller/Cheney speeches, as the cameras cut between Vogue models and 50-year-old virgins.
Speaking of the, er … speeches … as expected, last night the GOP tore Kerry a new one. Strategically, it’s probably so Dubya would be able to appear resoundingly positive tonight. In case you guys missed Senator Miller’s near-insane, venom-spewing diatribe, please let me summarize:
“I am very old, and I have a family. President Bush will protect my family, at all costs. John Kerry, if elected, will invite Osama Bin Laden to kill my family and feast on the flesh of my young ones. So, remember - Bush/Cheney ’04: They Won’t Kill or Eat My Family. Probably.”It is my fondest hope Miller is secretly a closeted homosexual, and will be besieged by drag queens for the remainder of the convention.
Compared to this jackhole, Dick Cheney came off almost human-like. The V.P. has passable oratory skills, but looks like Igor and possesses the vocal inflection of a Speak and Spell. His speech was pointed, but disappointingly, only vaguely evil. I definitely expected more overt malice: “I’m Dick Cheney, and I dine on the souls of the unbelievers! Muahahahahaha!”
I write about J-Lo’s butt for a living, so by karmic rights, I shouldn’t be allowed to highlight scripting mistakes in painstakingly-constructed political speeches. However, Cheney made an interesting rhetorical flub last night that must be pointed out. About mid-speech, he delivered a line that should have been said this way: “We are faced with an enemy…and we CAN NOT wait for the next attack.”
Instead, he said it like this: “We are faced with an enemy…and we can not WAIT for the next attack.”
Despite weirdo Freudian slips like this, the Republicans have handled logistics of the convention very well, especially from a press viewpoint. The order and themes of the speeches have been impeccable, with each night hitting a rousing (if not factually accurate) zenith, from Rudy to Ahnuld to Dick. The Republican Public Relations staff must be weak with back-patting by now. I wish the Dems showed this kind of organization with their message. I really do.
BCD’S METS: THE TEAM, THE TIME, THE HEART ATTACKBy KristenI’ve been a New York Mets fan since 1986, when Hall-of-Fame catcher Gary Carter took my cousin to the bathroom. They did something else that year, but a decade of Atlanta NL East titles has slowly, surely erased my recollection of it, not to mention my will to live.
Since then, there’s been lots of Good (Coney, Johnny Franco, Piazza, Ventura, Agbayani, the best defensive infield ever, Grand Slam Single) and plenty of Bad (Doc, Straw, Vince “Firecracker” Coleman, Armando “Why Did He DO That?” Benitez, the Class of ’02, coke problems [them, not me]).
Now, the Mets are back. The players are relatively young, darn good, and holy lord – they really, really like each other. They won their division decisively, and are up 2-0 in the NLDS against a rejuvenated Dodgers team (aka the 2003 Red Sox). Every analyst is predicting they will go to, and possibly win, the … I won’t jinx it.
So, why am I nervous? Why do I cover my eyes during a game where the Mets are up 4-1? Why do I catch my breath every time All-Star closer Billy Wagner jogs in from the bullpen? Why do I curse the heavens when Willie Randolph leaves a middle reliever in to bat for himself?
Maybe it’s the injuries to Pedro and El Duque.
Maybe it’s the Mets’ end-of-season swoon.
Hey, maybe it’s me.
No, it’s definitely me.
I’ve got to relax. I’ve got to take another, level-headed look at this team.
Individually, Reyes, Glavine, Wagner, Floyd, LoDuca, and (especially) the Carloses are all fairly-to-mostly awesome. John Maine was a nice surprise in Game 1, and Endy Chavez (besides being my favorite person named “Endy”) is a neat little rally-starter. Willie’s been almost Torre-esque so far. Jose Valentin even has the New York Mets Moustache of Victory, which is absolutely key in propelling them further in the playoffs (see: Hernandez, Keith). David Wright just had a plane named after him, ferchrissakes.
As for chemistry and intangibles, they have victory dances, secret handshakes, and I suspect, foosball tournaments where the games are called entirely in Spanish. They have lefties with power, righties with speed, and the most unoriginal, yet strangely endearing mascot in the majors. (“How about … we take a guy … and give him a baseball for a head?” “FANTASTIC idea, Jones! You’re hired!”) They have most of Puerto Rico on the field, half of Queens in the stands, and at least one reserve first baseman who will be AARP-eligible in 2008.
My dad likes these Mets. My office likes these Mets. My Yankee-faithful friends, who bleed pinstripes, even like these Mets.
I like these Mets. I LOVE these Mets. Just gimme a minute to get with the program.
On to Game 3.
BCD'S LETTERS TO OUR JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL SELVES PART 3
Dear 7th Grade Dustin,
Hey. What’s up? How you doing? Wait, never mind I know how you’re doing. Don’t worry it will get better soon. You will be able to look back and laugh at everything one day. Here are some things I have learned that I want to share with you. Things you maybe could have/should have done differently.
- You know that girl that you like so much? Make out with her cousin, that girl doesn’t like you but her cousin totally does and she’s cute. Get your head out of your ass.
- All the people giving you a hard time right now, they don’t fuckin matter. AT ALL. High School and all that is bullshit, enjoy the stuff you like (even though it’s going to change a lot, trust me) and don’t let them get you down because you will never see most of those bastards again.
- To spite what I said above, you’re a dork. Stop it! Look at the size of your glasses. How big do they need to be? And dress pants with sneakers? I know Seinfeld can pull it off, but he’s not cool either. You could be so much cooler if you just relax a little bit.
- Don’t worry so much about making the tennis team, everyone does. You’re in.
- When you take your first driving test some douche is going to pull out in the middle of your three point turn and you will fail because of it. Shoot that man before the test starts, no one will catch you.
- Go to the Prom you idiot. So what if it’s going to save you money to stay home. You end up sitting at a friends house thinking, “Wow. This sucks.” While everyone else is partying.
- Start doing stand-up very very soon. You will be so angry with yourself that you didn’t start until later.
- Start drinking by the end of High School. Just do it. Don’t ask me why!
- Dad is always right. I don’t know why but he is. Yes, it will infuriate you, but he keeps being right time after time. My theory is that it’s because he’s already made all the stupid mistakes you are about to make. Listen to him every so often. Trust me.
I think that’s it. And oh yeah, don’t pick up and air conditioner from the back, don’t drink Arbor Mist and when your parents go on vacation don’t drive the car. You will get into accident both times.
See ya soon.
Dustin
BCD'S LETTERS TO OUR JUNIOR HIGH SELVES: PART 2Dear 7th Grade Kristen,
First off, way to go with algebra! I knew you’d get it eventually.
Second, wear your retainer. They weren't kidding when they said your teeth would move back.
Third. Hm. Third. Okay. I know this time in your life seems tremendously weird, and you think you look like a giant, female Woody Allen. But there are a few things you should know about your future. Some of it, I swear, makes this all worth it.
-Your paralyzing shyness will turn into to mere quietude and minor awkwardness. It will give you a slight air of mystery, and people will occasionally assume you are pondering something witty and insightful. You will actually be thinking, “Bunnies are fuzzy (*drool*).” Do not let anyone know this.
-For the love of god, you are not fat … though, it wouldn’t hurt to change your all-cookie diet somewhat. Things kind of get out of hand your freshman year of college. And in 2000. And again in 2003.
-Carey D. will never love you, or even know you as anything beyond The Girl Who Passes My Locker a Lot. He will slow-dance to Warrant's "Heaven" with Rachel P. at the big Halloween ball. This will be a microcosm of future relationships. Sometimes, you will be the Carey figure. Other times, Rachel. Occasionally, you will be Warrant, and that will confuse you.
-You will always be obsessed with Halloween, the Mets, U2, and writing bad poetry in your diary. Your love of horses will disappear into air after you actually ride one for the first time. They are stinky.
-Your first kiss is coming! And he's totally cute! Enjoy it, because it will not happen again for a long, long time.
-Mom and Dad are SO uncool, right? Dumbass. They're spectacular parents, and as you grow more observant of mothers and fathers around you, you'll recognize just how good you have it. Please know, though, that you will never, ever beat Dad at Trivial Pursuit. Questions about World War II and the Nixon administration will be your inevitable downfall. (I'm not saying, "Don't try," I'm saying, "Cheat.")
-Your relative spaciness will always be there, as will your math proficiency, love of books, and complete inability to follow a map. Also, that time in third grade when you stabbed your foot with a pencil? The mark's still around, like, 20 years later. It's really weird.
-You will be confused for your sister for the rest of your life. This isn't a bad thing. Also, Eddie is going to be much, much bigger than you someday. Stop beating on him, and he might take pity. But probably not.
-Tell Aunt B. you love her more often. You'll know why eventually.
-You will be a crap athlete forever. You will try really hard, and next year, you’ll even make the 8th grade softball team, but that will be the extent of your on-field glory. Forays into broomball, touch football, dodgeball - basically any sport that ends in “ball” - will be disastrous. You will blame your boobs mostly, claiming, “They got in the way.” These will be lies. LIES!
-The Girl Scout troop you were considering quitting? Don't do it. You will know and adore these people 15 years later, and a lot of it has to do with the bond you created over separating cans of corn for orphans.
-In 15 years, you will not be married. You will not be a performer on Saturday Night Live. You will not have a car, a house, or that bizarre affection for Guns ‘N’ Roses’ “Patience.” You WILL have a decent job. You will have visited England, Spain, and Seattle. You will have a Masters degree, a neato group of friends, and a sweet dude who will believes that “House of Slacks” would be a much better movie than “House of Wax” (not the Vincent Price one – the Paris Hilt… forget it).
Keep going, and be who you are. The rest is gravy.
Love and remember what I said about the retainer,
Kristen
BCD'S LETTERS TO OUR JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL SELVES: PART I
Dear Junior High Rachel,
Know all the Robert Heinlein and Stephen King you've been reading? All the stuff about time travel and whatnot?
Believe it.
Hey. I'm you at twentye--em. Ahem.
Twenty…something.
Nice to meet you.
No--I really am you. Seriously. Ask me any question.
Okay. Here's the answer (because I already know what you're going to ask):
Yeah. Yes. You got some matches at "Phantom of the Opera" on the eighth-grade class trip, and you used sawdust for kindling, and when it looked like it was going to burn out of control, you put it out with the green pitcher your mom used to water the fichus in the living room. And no one really found out, but you suspected your dad knew something was up when he had to follow that pipe into the crawlspace that one time and he found a scorch mark on the concrete. Man, you were such a little pyro then.
See? I told you. I'm you. Trust me.
So, listen. I'm going to keep this brief. I know you've been wondering and worrying about a few things, so in no particular order, here are answers to a couple of your most pressing, 12-year-old questions. Maybe they'll give you a little piece of mind until you can drive.
By the time you are twenty-e…(ahem)…twenty-something, you will:
-still love performing and no one will make fun of you for doing it. Afew people will even tell you you're pretty good at it sometimes.
-have deviated slightly from your "good girl" mode. You'll do a few things that your parents don't know about--things that would be considered "dangerous but not life threatening" (I KNOW, RIGHT?!), and are clearly acts that the folks would disagree with. These things will
occasionally be a little scary (but mostly a lot of fun) and you will not feel guilty about them at all. Take that, good girl (who is still mostly a good girl, but with a few illicit life-experience-type things under her belt)!
-learn that it's okay to mess up. You will. A lot. You'll still beat yourself up about it some and be a little embarrassed each time it happens, but you'll get over it.
-realize that having passionate interests that aren't necessarily "mainstream" is not only okay; it's cool.
-figure out how to deal with your hair. Suffice it to say, the frizz mop on your head will be conquered through the use of good hairdressers, product and forceful determination.
-become a really, really good cook. Your mom will be proud. Your dad will be proud. You will be proud. And you will watch WAY too much Food Network as a result. You don't know what Food Network is? That's okay. It'll be invented soon, and will replace the hole that was left in
your viewing schedule when the local PBS station stopped with the Julia Child and started airing stupid Master Performances reruns 24-7. And when you come to know Alton Brown, you will discover how much more he feeds the dorked-out flames of your food-love than stupid Jeff
Smith ever could.
-grow boobs. They will be proportionate to your body shape and size, and some people will even think they are nice.
-learn how to talk to people your own age…kind of. But see, the thing is? It doesn't really have to do with age so much as the people you're talking to. Better said: you will be gifted with great people to talk with who get you. You will get them. Thus, you will become good friends--BFFs, even. And you will even end up in a great romantic relationship with some of them (and one in particular), and there will be kissing of the French variety. (I KNOW, RIGHT?!)
-Speaking of? You will have your first kiss soon. It will be terrible. He will have braces, and the boa-like ability to unhinge his jaw, thus that he might try to swallow your whole face and part of your clavicle. Don't worry. In a few years, you will totally meet people who a) make making out fun, b) dig you, and do not promptly return to the Halloween party only to go smoke an (ew!) cigarette with the older brother of the host and c) do not leave orthodonture-related dents in
your face.
-(as mentioned before) go on dates! And get made out with as much as you want to be made out with, with! Eh. With. And maybe other things, which you will figure out in time. (Along those lines, you need to read more Judy Blume.)
-be happy with who you are, and the people around you. They're gonna be great.
-really like and love your sister. She's only a baby now, but she turns out really cool.
-not be upset that you aren't the perfect mix of Indiana Jones and James Bond. It's okay. You'll be doing other stuff, and you'll have cool theme music.
I should run, but that'll give you a head start towards toughing out the teen years. In the meantime, put down the MASH note, and go do your Latin homework. It'll be important later on.
No, I'm not telling you how. But it will.
Love,
Rachel (at…let's just say "twenties.")
BCD'S SOAP OPERA UPDATESBy KristenThings I learned from watching "Days of Our Lives" recently, having missed every episode for the last 13 years:
-Carly isn't buried alive anymore. (*whew*)
-Bo and Hope's kid is 30-years-old. How is this possible? He was four when I was 12.
-They’ve replaced Old Billie with New Billie. (You know it's the same character because they have the same hair.) Oh! And her baby wasn't actually stillborn. Billie just thought she was, and now the baby’s 42.
-Carrie’s face recovered from her “permanently disfiguring” acid accident. Way to go, skin!
-Cancer, rape, murder, multiple kidnappings and deranged stalkers have failed to kill Jack and Jen’s affections for each other, but now it looks like Jack’s got Hodgkins again. They came to this conclusion in ten minutes, while stranded in an isolated cave, with no diagnostic tools around them whatsoever. Then Jack passed out, and they were rescued by helicopter EMTs, who I assume troll Salem for angst-ridden couples with possibly terminal diseases.
-Kate ... has had … some … work done.
-As … has … Hope.
-PATCH AND KAYLA ARE BACK? SHUT THE EFF UP! I thought he had been poisoned. Hm. In retrospect, I should have known when they lost his body.
-Abe and Lexie are still together (kind of)! Imagine if Morgan Freeman was married to Alicia Keys, but Morgan was a blind police sergeant and Alicia was the worst doctor, ever. That’s kind of how they are, except with some baby-switching.
-Marlena was a serial killer? When did this happen?
-Oh. After she was possessed by the devil.
-But before she escaped the volcanic tidal wave.
-The Sami/Austin/Carrie/Lucas love quadrangle hasn't ended. This has gone on for 13 years, because none of them has heard of internet dating.
-Victor Kiriakis (in real life, Jennifer Aniston’s dad) is now father to Kyle from “Real World Chicago.” The pop culture node in my brain just exploded. Must stop now.
