Peppers and Beef

Welcome to the Hot Chef group here at iKnifeCollector.com

In Texas there are two food groups — beef and garbage (carne de vaca & basura). In Mexico there are two food groups, frijoles and pimientos (beans & peppers).

Here along the border we admire each other. They have caballeros and we have cowboys. They have ranchos and we have ranches. They have pistolas and we have pistols. They have señoritas and we have sweethearts. We get along real well, two halves of the real world, so we share. We put each others' favorite food into our own. That usually means beef and hot peppers.

We both look to the West and see the same sunset with tears in our eyes and a fire in our belly, and quench it with a little tequila and fond thoughts of mama.

I hope this rant will find you with a tear in your eye and a fire in your belly. Thus you are a noble beast and worthy of appropriate accolade. For many timid souls who hover about the twilight reaches of my camp fire, you may not eat spicy food and peppers. You might even have one of those baby excuses about digestive or moral problems — if so, leave now. Beyond this point lays the domain of Hot Chef.

Hot? Can you discuss the "Scoville Scale" as you might describe your foot-in jammies or Mr. Teddy? If not, spend some time Google'in it and return later.

Ahhh — welcome. Capsaicin is a chemical that has no odor or flavor, by and large. It just causes pain. Not Mommie's 8mg Baby Aspirin pain — real pain — lasting pain — Mexican pain — Texas pain. You need pain stuck right up inside your head, right on top of your little pink tongue, right below your considerable brain — pain that runs down to your "out-mouth" and lets you enjoy it twice.

You must occasionally cry when you eat. Sometimes I cry when I see a sharp flag ceremony. Occasionally I cry when I observe the nobility of man in the face of adversity, or see a kid rise above his peers in stunning achievement.

The most hardened and cynical among us cries in secret ceremony when the name of the unknown fallen is intoned one final time.

I always cry when I eat.

Think, if you will: steers and hogs and sheep can run, break down the fence and make it all the way to a hidden arroyo in Mexico. Chickens can fly over the fence and turn feral, living in the trees with the wild turkeys. You may whine that you're a veggie-totalitarian, that you eat no meat. Nonsense.

Foo. Your cruelty is complete, and worse — it is denied. You know nothing of the potato's fear of discovery — like a cold war spy in East Berlin — palpable, constant, gnawing. You have no sympathy for the trembling cabbage, or it's baby cousins, Brussels sprouts. You have no empathy for the lettuce who cannot run as it awaits cruel death.

The recipes here are real ones. Submit one if you have one. None of that candy-coated "1/4 tsp" of this or that. A real recipe is a suggestion, an outline. There are many ways to cook something. Just describe it. If your recipe, per each two people, does not include at least a teaspoon of dried pepper, three real peppers or a tablespoon of curry then please do not presume upon our patience. Start a "Baby Food Chef" group.