This past weekend, I visited a quaint little shop that – at least for storytelling purposes – sold nothing but hot sauce. Lots and lots of hot sauce.
I like hot sauce. Really do. Tabasco is my table salt. But until I stepped foot in this dusty shop, I never truly understood how utterly capable hot sauce is of changing a person’s life.
That’s the stupid way of saying, “I think I’m going to get into collecting hot sauce.”
It has absolutely nothing to do with the eating part, mind you. I already have my trusted brands, and there’s little need to experiment. I smoke; it’s not like I can tell the difference between a ghost vanilla pepper and a Scotch Fuck jalapeno, anyway.
No, my new hot sauce fascination is due to the absolutely wicked bottles they come in. Wicked enough to make me type like Ron Weasley. Who I hate.
See, this weird store’s supply seemed to grossly undervalue any expiration dates normally associated with hot sauce. As I shuffled from shelf to shelf, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d stumbled upon a reserve from 1976.
Incidentally, that’s the year the Seattle Seahawks played their first game. I’m just unclear on which sport.
So, more accurately, “I think I’m going to get into collecting really old hot sauce.” You’re about to find out why.
