Not Just Hot Patty Bu'n Batty.

Just last week, when Beefy's party was being prepared, we had a minor scare in the temple of Thesephone. One of the minor goddesses, she who is in charge of nutrition, had a major crisis. "Me han' dem a bun up!" she was heard crying. "Whooyooiii!" The head goddess, Thesephone, always a pillar of sympathy, looked goggle-eyed and said "Stap yu cryin' no M!" And lo, the crying stopped. Poor old M had been jerking up the pork (sorry Rasta) and the chicken and she had been using raw pepper and doing it with bare hands. Now, any man who has ever worked in the hallowed halls known as "the kitchen, knows the crisis that comes from having had his hands in pepper. Should he forget and not wash his hands well, or even if he scrubbed his hands very well, then go to perform one of two personal bodily functions, he would be heard to call out: "Holy fada! Help me no! Mi tutus on fire!" Should he have displaced the woman of the house in the kitchen, who has by now come to see what is happening in the bathroom, he would then utter: "Woman. Is wha' you a stare pon? T'row water pon it no. You can' see de flames dem? Whooyooii!" The dutiful woman, would then get a pail of the iciest water she can find, without having to search for the nearest river, bring it back and with a glee that is all too familiar in Batman movies on the face of The Joker, would throw the bucketful of water in general area of the offended member.

That is a bad enough personal experience and I can say that I have been there and done that. Not fun.

But, we have another story to pepper you. Imagine a house keeper so charmed in the art of cooking that she can make world class burn-your-house-down pepper sauce. This pepper sauce is to be used with as much care as one would use when trying to cross a tight rope. Its colour is a rich red and its consistency is a mix between chunky tomato paste and a salsa. Now, here is the rub. Said housekeeper does not see the need to put this sauce in a jar that is clearly labelled. In fact, she is so unconcerned that she puts it into a jar marked "Mexican salsa-hot". Well, with hindsight you could say the warning is obvious.

Cue visitors to the island, who are squiffing a few icy cold Banks, watching the setting sun from my veranda; finding handfuls of tortilla chips, and leading these to a bowl filled with "salsa". These visitors are a good international crew: an American, an Englishman, and a Bolivian. I, the host, say "Dip in, guys." Within seconds I hear "Jeezzazzz!!!", "Holy s**t!" and "Aie caramba!" simultaneously. The gift of tongues? "We need new tongues," they all say in a mix of languages. Geesh! What a bunch of wimps, I think. Then, as if in slow motion, my handful of chips dip into the salsa. I move the loaded chips to my waiting mouth and close. I chew and savour... "Yeee!! This is not salsa. This is pepper sauce." I hunt for the housekeeper, who innocently asks if I could not see it was pepper sauce. Which part of not at all could she not understand, in English, in French, in some African tongue? More Banks, now, was the order of the day. When they talk about banks' bailouts I have my own image. That cold brew did eventually slake the thirst, but first it calmed a fiery mouth.

It is now the next morning, and although my mouth is now glad to be able to taste all foods again, nature has to work its cycle.I did eat a mouthful of pepper sauce. My body has no need for all of that. It needs to get rid of some or all of this useless nutrition. I look toward that small room adjacent to my office. I feel the beads of sweat forming as my stomach rumbles one more time. I say a prayer. I enter the room. I take a comfortable seat. I close my eyes. "Whooooooooyooooiiiiiiii!