I leaned over the pot to inhale deeply—really deeply—and my nose brushed the rising steam. Instantly, the sharp oils hit me like a lime-flavored wasabi bomb. I sneezed so violently that I knocked the cream pot sideways. Half of it sloshed down the counter, directly into the open drawer where my oven mitts live.

The recipe was pure Grandma: equal parts simplicity and danger. Chili powder, smoked paprika, a mountain of beans, and a commandment written in the margins: “Use fresh peppers only.”

The recipe seemed innocuous enough: chicken, blackberries, and a whole lot of peppers. "Perfect," I thought, "a little kick, a little sweet." Grandma knew what's up, and she clearly didn't want Betty to know.