jalapenos from ... the bad place

The change of the seasons has made the sting of moving fresh again, so we find ourselves pining for Boston. Elliot, who's undergone some serious trauma lately -- namely, the loss of his front tooth, has been really missing our old home. Today he said, amid sobs, "I miss our apartment. I hate houses. I hate being cold in my house. I miss leaves on the ground. I miss Cole and Josie. I miss their 'Sonic and Mario and the Olympic Games'! I miss my school. I miss my works. I miss the playground. I hate Albuquerque!" It was so sad. Elliot refused to have his homesickness captured in photo form, so I volunteered Claire to give you all a visual of Elliot's sadness.

We too have been missing Rhett and Patty, and recently it's taken its form in their cooking. When the Phillies won the World Series, Cort and I both immediately agreed we would like one of their Philly cheesesteaks. But even more recently, we've had a hankering for their jalapeno poppers, which is where my story begins.


Last weekend, as we were preparing to watch the last *sob* pre-election episode of SNL, I decided to be ambitious and make poppers. I fastidiously carved out the membrane and seeds of each jalapeno, and followed a recipe online, and roasted them in the oven for almost an hour. So we sit down to watch SNL and each pop a popper. All of a sudden, I'm gasping for breath. It was the hottest !*&^! popper ever! I hopped into the kitchen looking for bread, and there's saltines sitting on the counter. I grab two and stuff them into my mouth. Little did I know what a horrible effect salty crackers have on an already lethally spiced mouth! It felt like I ate two cayenne pepper crackers -- cue the mental visual of cartoon character Corey turning beet red, cheeks puffed out with pressure, and then steam pouring out of both ears. It was then Cort realized I needed some assistance. He handed me a full glass of milk and I chugged it, and felt slightly better, and he handed me a slice of bread, which I tore into small pieces and smooshed them directly to my tongue, like a doctor applying a bandage to a bloody wound. I sat there, with my tongue hanging out of my mouth sizzling with the bread on top, and watched SNL. It was NOT that much fun, and Cort got to eat the rest of the poppers. It was ridiculous that I was jealous that he was eating them, considering one almost caused my demise.

So I made them again last night -- I know, I'm a glutton for punishment -- somehow they turned out better, but I will always be cautious of the evil mystery popper lurking with the milder ones. What an important life lesson I learned. . . and that was another edition of "Deep Thoughts" by Jack Handy.