“I can’t really handle spicy foods. I have a ‘supertaster,’” said the woman next to me at a business dinner as we perused a robustly awesome sushi menu.

“Oh, you mean bitchmouth?” I helpfully corrected.

By grace of God and everything holy, she laughed at that. I suspected she would, but that’s only after Monday morning quarterbacking the conversation up to that point. In the moment, there was no on-deck circle for that declaration, it just marched forcefully to the plate and took a cut.

I love spicy foods. I love living in close proximity to the greatest region in the world for growing green chiles. I buy hot sauce from breweries. I wish Taco Bell fire sauce came in big industrial dispensers that I could put in my home. I refuse to believe anyone cannot overcome their spicy food intolerance. I crusade against bitchmouth.

Ask Kristin. She’s lived with my spicy ass for over 5 years, and she even gets down on the spicy now. I’m not like one of those crazy masochists who likes to sweat over some insane bowl of chili and give myself diverticulitis by sheer force of capsicum, but I firmly believe turning your spicy dial up slightly makes everything better.

Flavors come alive in new ways. Notes and nuances of previously mundane dishes pop and surprise you. Your mouth is vibrant and tingling like an audience at a punk show waiting for an encore. It’s fucking alive, man!

So a little playful confrontation usually pushes people past their self-imposed flavor limits. More often than not, the result is positive. And thankfully my new friend didn’t hold my remark against me.

20 minutes elapsed.

“I think of all the condiments, I would let Sriracha put a baby in me first,” I declared perfectly coinciding with a sudden lull in conversation at our table of 10. The older, more conservative men at the table were not enthused by my remark.

I have no defense for my lack of social grace, but I stand by my statement.

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