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 Some things will never change, like my hate for Joy Behar with the searing heat of a million suns. Others are more fluid like my on-again, off-again romance with jalapenos.
I've been known to put them on anything and everything, a fairly new dietary psychosis the origin of which I do not understand. The craving hit one day, and I found myself at Shaw's Market looking for the hottest jalapenos they sell. Since then, I've fluctuated between gorging on the vinegary hot little buggers to cursing them as vile devil food once nature began to take its vengeful course. I've eventually crawled back like a horse-whipped lover garnishing everything from Wheat Thins to dried Cinnamon Toast Crunch with my jalapenos. Yes, even cereal; and I'm both ashamed and proud to admit it.
I thought about that this morning as I contemplated throwing yet another half-used jar in with the recycling trash, thinking this time, yes, THIS TIME I really am over them. I think the idea of craving such an odd thing is more frustrating to me than actually ingesting it. I leaned forward into the refrigerator attempting to justify why I'd keep such an, at times tempting treat, at other times restless night and painful post-coffee mornings. It has become my own little masochism and it reminds me of seeing my sister go through a strange BBQ pork rinds and cream-cheese phase. She claimed it was called for in the Atkins diet, but I didn't necessarily buy it. And the tales about pregnant girls craving ice cream and pickles for no apparent reason I now respect and believe. Can YOU say you enjoy the taste of a few fresh jalapenos with a dab of ranch dressing? If so, you know where I'm coming from; if not, I won't hold it against you.
My point in this? There is none; but until you know the joy of a top-shelf vanilla bean ice cream with three extra-large jalapeno slices on the side, reserve your judgment for things like double-parked cars and snotty waiters. I have a lunch date with my half-used jar of peppers.
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