I sit here, at the old l’ordinateur, and wonder exactly what it is I am doing. Typing…? In front of me to the immediate southwest sits a delightful cocktail. Homemade. Now, this is a rare occurrence. Rare because typically, in my world, cocktails are good only if they are not homemade. Nothing makes a drink more delicious than a powerful mixologist standing in front of you with cheap bottles of booze, for sale at a cost. Whether the cost is your dignity or the bulk of your wallet is dependent on you somewhat, and the other two quite heavily.
But I digress. The issue at hand is the pile of fresh organic chilies that sit behind me in a large, stainless steel bowl from IKEA. Not the chilies of course, the bowl is from IKEA. The chilies are from my dear friends mother. She is a woman who is living the life of my dreams. A staunch German breed, this family’s humor is found in the more jovial (younger & feminine) generation. I have known the father for over ten years, have exchanged less than 20 words with him, never seen him smile, and find him miserably attractive. I don’t even want to attempt the mental reconstruction of the grandfather. The mother, however, lives on a vineyard, which her husband molds into expensive, exquisite wine while she annually invests herself in all sorts of rare and idiosyncratic projects. The dinosaur nativity scene is my personal favorite.
But she has of late been growing rich, luxurious, waxy chilies and has given me more than I can handle. Salsa? Marinated chilies? Chile rellenos? Salsa? I have no clue as to what to do with this bounty of the harvest.
I think maybe I will try the salsa. FYI, I am of French blood (it might go badly).