Heat of Summer

As the name suggests, the "World Spice Merchants Herb & Tea House" in Seattle looks like Marco Polo's cellar. It's reminiscent of some ancient apothecary shop, its walls lined with mysterious glass orbs filled with beguiling powders and leaves, and the cozy sitting area, replete with a large picture book of ye olde historickal mapps of the worlde.

The moment you step in, you're sucked into a swirling orgy of olfactory sensation that makes you understand why cats run around in circles when they smell catnip. There are pure spices, spice mixes, rubs, teas, salts, herbs, all in various forms of ground or dried or whole, all arranged in beckoning rows with an invitation to open each jar and have a whiff. Most conversation in the shop consists of, "Wow, what is that one?" and "Ohmansmellthisone!" and "Oooh, imagine this on salmon -- I mean pork ribs -- I mean in a curry -- I mean from a spoon!" They give you a notepad to record your desired purchases, which you then take to the counter to collect your hoard.

It was while we were standing in line that my brother reached over and plucked one particular glass from the wall. It was full of what looked like some sort of whole, plum-sized fruit, oddly dried and wrinkled like a jarful of shrunken heads.

"What's that?" asked Shauna. I could already see her calculating its potential culinary value, recipes and spice properties flashing by her eyes like a vegetal terminator.

"This," said Michael, producing the jar with the pleased academic demeanor of an archaeologist exhibiting a particularly coveted artifact, "is the bhut jolokia, the hottest pepper in the world. You know the Scoville scale for capsaicin content -- in other words, pepper heat units? Well, bell peppers rank zero on this scale; jalapenos, around 10,000. The mighty habanero pushes the 100,000 mark. This little puppy" -- he turned the lid gleefully -- "weighs in at over one million Scoville units."

Shauna's and my eyes bugged.

Michael stuck his nose in it.

"Hm, kind of fruity," he pronounced. We tentatively sniffed. He was right -- it smelled vaguely plummy, and not hot at all. We nodded appreciatively.

Then Michael looked up at us and a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. "Ohhhh, no," I said, reaching for the jar. He evaded me and glanced around to be sure no one was watching. We were morbidly curious, anyway, although continued to murmur vague warnings as we leaned forward in fascination. Michael carefully extracted the tip of one evilly wrinkled fruit and nipped off a corner with his fingernail -- a speck about the size of a grain of coarse sea salt. He glanced around once more, eyed the speck, and popped it into his mouth.

For a couple of moments, he chewed thoughtfully while the three of us stood there looking at each other. Then beads of sweat began popping out on his forehead. His eyes began to water. He inhaled deeply through his nose and blew softly out his mouth. "Are you okay?" his sisters asked tentatively.

But Michael continued to look thoughtful, the only evidence of bhut jolokia ingestion being that he was slowly turning redder and shinier than the other jars of peppers behind him.

"I think so," he finally croaked. "Well... actually, no. This is one of the most painful experiences I've ever had."

"What's it like? Should we get you some water?"

"No, no. But it does feel like my tongue is being pounded with porcupines."

"Is it getting worse?? Can we do anything??"

"Yes," he croaked again. "Buy two of them."