The Bee Chair Debates...

Thursday, February 15, 2007

BCD'S BURNING SENSATION:

The Horrors of Jalapeno Hands

by 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.