Jerkin' The Jerk Off
Oh my goodness ...
Last night, I went to a barbeque here at the palace of rooms, and the wizards of vittles were serving up what is commonly called Jerk Chicken.
This spicy defamation of our barnyard feathered friends is native to Jamaica, a Caribbean island with weather so hot that there are public showers along the walkways, which allow you to strip down to your nothings in order to cool off.
Apparently, temperatures soaring beyond 100° F are not enough for the folks on that languid island floating in the middle of a coral blue sea. To add to this searing heat, Jamaicans have perfected a dish so hot that it makes the ambient temperature seem as cool as an Arctic breeze.
A tall black man, with a chef's hat tilted slightly askew on his head, plopped a drumstick on my Chinette plate, and warned, "That might be a bit spicy for you, brudder."
"How spicy?" I asked.
"Mistah, dat dere is yer Jerk chicken."
"Jerk?" I mumbled.
"Yaaasss, mistah, it spice you up real nice. Yaaasss, nice and spicy. Good for yer soul."
Spicy?
Spicy?
I sat down at one of those wooden picnic tables, and after just one bite and my eyes lit up like the fourth of July, and the finale of Gioachino Rossini's William Tell Overture was roaring in my ears.
What's worse, in my panic for a fire extinguishing bottle of water, I actually swallowed the infernal, molten morsel, and it lit up my throat as though I had swallowed a fireball from Hell.
Lord, Lord, Lord ... my poor milquetoast tummy did a reverse three-and-a-half backflip and sent that hunk of lava burning its way right back up and into the middle of the potato salad on my plate.
Jerk chicken? No thanks ... as far as I'm concerned, the name says it all ...
Oh my goodness ...
Last night, I went to a barbeque here at the palace of rooms, and the wizards of vittles were serving up what is commonly called Jerk Chicken.
This spicy defamation of our barnyard feathered friends is native to Jamaica, a Caribbean island with weather so hot that there are public showers along the walkways, which allow you to strip down to your nothings in order to cool off.
Apparently, temperatures soaring beyond 100° F are not enough for the folks on that languid island floating in the middle of a coral blue sea. To add to this searing heat, Jamaicans have perfected a dish so hot that it makes the ambient temperature seem as cool as an Arctic breeze.
A tall black man, with a chef's hat tilted slightly askew on his head, plopped a drumstick on my Chinette plate, and warned, "That might be a bit spicy for you, brudder."
"How spicy?" I asked.
"Mistah, dat dere is yer Jerk chicken."
"Jerk?" I mumbled.
"Yaaasss, mistah, it spice you up real nice. Yaaasss, nice and spicy. Good for yer soul."
Spicy?
Spicy?
I sat down at one of those wooden picnic tables, and after just one bite and my eyes lit up like the fourth of July, and the finale of Gioachino Rossini's William Tell Overture was roaring in my ears.
What's worse, in my panic for a fire extinguishing bottle of water, I actually swallowed the infernal, molten morsel, and it lit up my throat as though I had swallowed a fireball from Hell.
Lord, Lord, Lord ... my poor milquetoast tummy did a reverse three-and-a-half backflip and sent that hunk of lava burning its way right back up and into the middle of the potato salad on my plate.
Jerk chicken? No thanks ... as far as I'm concerned, the name says it all ...
