I remember the day that I learned of the treachery of things that are disguised as food.

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

I remember the day that I learned of the treachery of things that are disguised as food.

I was in a small park in southern Texas. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and I was having a nice time looking at birds in the park. I remember that I was searching for a Clay-colored Robin. The park was filled with people cooking and eating. The sun was shining and kids were playing. I was looking through my binoculars into the leaves of a giant tree, when I first heard the voice.

&uot;What are you looking at?&uot;

I turned to the questioner, a man, and told him that I was looking for a bird.

&uot;Yeah?&uot; he acknowledged. &uot;I suppose that I’m getting to the age where I should start watching birds.&uot;

&uot;Everyone should watch the birds. So, of course, you should start watching birds,&uot; I replied. &uot;How old are you?&uot;

He told me. He was the same age as I was. I asked him when his birthday was.

&uot;March 16,&uot; he said.

&uot;March 16? That’s my birthday!&uot; I said. Talk about your coincidences. The next thing I know, we are both getting out our driver’s licenses and showing them to one another. It was true. We were both born on exactly the same day, with him being about an hour older than I am.

&uot;It’s a sign,&uot; he said. &uot;Come on, you’re coming over here and eat with my family.&uot;

I took him up on his offer. A man has to respect his elders -&160;even if they are so by only about an hour. Besides, it fit into the three keys to happiness that my grandmother told me about. She said that if I do these three things, I have a pretty good chance for a happy life. The three keys are: never miss a chance to put your feet up, never miss the opportunity to go to the bathroom and never pass up any free food. Grandma was right; Grandmas usually are. I walked across the park to the picnic table where I was introduced to his family. My new friend, an electrician, had a wife and a 10-year-old daughter. They were charming and gracious hosts. I ate fried bread and beefsteak. The food was great. Then my host offered me a tiny bit of a concoction made from peppers.

&uot;What is this?&uot; I asked. Peppers worry me. I grew up in a family where ketchup was considered a very hot seasoning. We only used three spices: salt, pepper and ketchup. We thought that peppers came in three forms: hot, hotter and call the ambulance.

&uot;It’s an habanero,&uot; he said with a smile.

&uot;It’s going to be very hot, isn’t it?&uot; I asked.

&uot;No,&uot; he said with another smile. &uot;It’s like candy.&uot; Men lie about such things. &uot;Eat it. It’s good for you. It will put hair on your chest.&uot;

I have hair on my chest. I asked the same question of his wife. Women tell the truth about such things.

&uot;It is very hot,&uot; she said. She gave me a sympathetic look. Perking up, she added, &uot;It will certainly curl the hair you have on your chest.&uot;

That was all I needed to hear to convince me not to eat the habanero pepper dish offered to me. Then I noticed the 10-year-old daughter looking at me. She was sizing me up. She was looking at me to see if I’d be man enough to eat the peppers. My manhood was at stake. I took a tiny spoonful of pepper and tossed it into my mouth.

How can I describe the sensation? It wasn’t food; it was a toxic waste spill. It was lip remover in a bowl. It was as painful as stepping with my barefoot on a Lego in the middle of the night. My mouth was on fire. It was like I was eating a dish of red-hot needles. Things got even worse. I had no milk to put out the dancing flames. Only dairy products are effective in putting out a pepper fire in one’s mouth. It burned my lip and it burned my tongue. It burned all the way to my stomach.

I walked through five states before the fire went out. In just five or six days, I was hungry again. But I ate the habanero pepper soup of death and lived to tell the story. I have discovered that time does indeed heal all wounds. There are days now when my digestive system barely smolders.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.