My lady loves spiky foods. She eats Indian cuisine with aplomb, ploughs her way through your standard Southwestern chilies with her usual verve, and wasabi was conquered a long time ago.
This past week, Sgt Krunch and I met her in Big City at the upscale Mexican eatery where she was being her usual adorable, exuberantly sparkly self.
Our food came, and she spread a little of the pico de gallo side onto her chimichanga ...
... "Aren't dachsie bellies just the cutest thing ever? They just beg for nuzzling, oh, and don't you just hate: 'There is no I in team'? Maybe not, but there are several I's in 'Platitude-spouting idiot'. I mean, seriously?"
And took a dainty bite, followed immediately by, "Holy [deleted]! [Deleted]! [Deleted]! [Deleted]!" -- Pttooey! -- "Holy crap, I think I just bit into Satan's scrotum!"
The following silence in a relatively busy lunch-hour restaurant was ... beautiful.
There was a great deal of water consumed, a lemon wedge rubbed hastily along her tongue, a little more water, and then she blinked and blurted, "Did I yell that?"
Poor Sgt Krunch was laughing so hard, she couldn't take a bite of her own food; and I have to admit that I was trying awfully hard to keep the gigglesnorting under control.
Heh. Right off the cuff.
I think someone may have planted their jalapenos a little bit too close to their ghost peppers.