The man in my life extracted the small pepper from its jar, popped it in his mouth, then hopped around the kitchen for a good half an hour afterwards, inhaling yoghurt, opening his mouth under the tap, tears streaming from his eyes, his face turning a spectacular and frankly worrying shade of purple.
Me? No sympathy. None. It said on the jar “Naga Viper Chillies – The World’s HOTTEST”. The clues were there (although it turns out they were bending the truth slightly – there are hotter fruits even than the Viper.) What possessed him? What possesses men – and it is usually men – to trample over their tastebuds by subjecting them to painful capsaicin heat?
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