People complain about the heat the way they do about rain in September. It’s summer, get it? Granted, it’s uncommonly hot, but you know why that is.
Why not think of the heat as your friend instead? Get a tan. Paint the roof. Launder that grubby duvet. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Me, I’m drying some finger chilies that I found at the market a few days ago. While other vendors only had green, this one lady had a whole pile of bright red ones. Beautiful, even if they looked to be on the bottom range of the Scoville scale. I couldn’t complain. With this weather, who knows if we’ll see the likes of those peppers in the coming months? Then you can blame the searing, sweltering, withering heat.
I could be wrong, but there’s not much of a tradition drying peppers in this country. Having said that, I have some advice for you. It bears saying, and I’ll be brief: protect your hands when handling peppers, especially in large quantities.
(I did not. I always forget. I was stringing the peppers with needle and thread when I absentmindedly touched myself — never mind where — and boy did I feel it. The heat, I mean. From the capsaicin.)
Also, try not to overdo it. The peppers should be dry and pliant, not brittle. It’s the easiest thing to over-dry them in this heat. You will have to rely on sight and touch to tell if they’ve done enough time in the sunlight. Mine are on their third day and they look ready. Go ahead and touch yours. Are you wearing gloves?
And that’s all there is to it. Now your peppers are ready to use. Just remember that they will always be hotter dried than they are fresh. Peppers are contrarian in that regard. They don’t go by something as silly as rules. Take Anita Linda (or Judi Dench) on the one hand, for example, then Angel Locsin (or Angelina Jolie) on the other: Who’s fresh? Who’s desiccated? Who’s hotter?
Well, peppers don’t work that way. I’m reminded of my friend Kim. He’s half-Thai and seriously into peppers. “Wha’ Fip’no not lahk spahcee foot?” he once asked in that charming lilt of his. Then he shook his head, as if to say, What’s wrong with these people?
“So move back to Bangkok if it bothers you that much,” I shot back, tentatively dipping my lumpia Shanghai in his fiery homemade chili sauce. “Some folks don’t like it hot and that’s that.”
“Baht peppah ghoot fow you!” he exclaimed. “You ghet” — and here he jerked his index finger upright — “last long, long tahm!”
Oh, I don’t know about that. On the other hand, there has to be a rational explanation why the world is being overrun by Indians. Here at home, though, peppers are a maligned lot, often unfairly blamed for a condition affecting that part of the anatomy south of my friend’s symbolic finger.
Like when I noticed the vendor eyeing my sizable purchase. I knew that look. Dang, it said. This guy’s asking for it.
“I’m not afraid of hemorrhoids,” I told her. “That’s what Daflon is for.”
Manang wasn’t amused. Perhaps she didn’t get it. Or maybe she was simply immune to my charm. She looked like she could use some of those peppers to loosen her up. Absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever.*
Having paid for the peppers, I stepped out of her makeshift stand and into the merciless glare of Satan’s own sun. That was when it hit me: I had been in that market all of fifteen minutes, and in perhaps another fifteen I would be back home, drying off my sweat in the comfort of my air-conditioned room. Manang had been there all day, likely had been there before my day had even started, and would be there until the sun came down — enduring the heat, the humidity, the noise, the stink… and the occasional pompous fool like me.
I have no reason to complain. None whatsoever.
That is really smart, I never thought to dry my own peppers, will have to try this soon. I have always meant to make my own casajos or dried beef tapa like my grandmother did 30-40 years ago... Now would be the perfect time to try that... thanks for this idea...
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