Josh Bell
*****
You can smell it coming—spicy, oily and pungent, with a hint of donkey show. The waiter sets it down, chuckles, and backs away. There's a green-chili pepper—stem and all—lodged in the neck, where a wedge of lime outta be. Oh, that crazy, Crazy ed. Since 1989, Cave Creek, Arizona's, "Crazy" ed Chilleen has been bottling Crazy ed's Original Chili Beer (www.chilibeer.com). The first sip brings a tear to your eye and blisters to the back of your throat. Soon your lips are tingling and your tongue is numb. The condensation rolling down the whimsical yellow label mirrors the sweat rolling down your forehead. Soon your brain pulsates. A yellow light passes across your eyes, followed by orange and, finally, red. Then the Terror Alert System of Spiciness fades, and all goes black. The next morning, all is a mystery. What happened? Where did that pinata come from? Will I make it to the bathroom before my intestine rips in half?
You return from the bathroom, cool washcloth pressed against your closed, bloodshot eyes. Yet the biggest question of all remains: How soon until I can get some more of that craaazy chili beer?
Julie Seabaugh
*****
Nachos, dude. Without a doubt.
They were by and large responsible for my fat-kid status as a child. Because of their irresistible lure I've been kicked out of two restaurants for picking at patrons' plates while the hostesses walked me to my seat. Off the top of my head I can think of at least five diets that have shown great promise before I succumbed to them.
ever since I developed teeth to chew chips I've been a sucker for nachos. My grandfather, with his eternal plate of beans and homemade guacamole, embedded in me a taste for two of the most critical ingredients. My mom kept the cabinets bursting with Tostitos and Cheez Whiz, and it was my dad's pleasure to buy me a second bucket of ballpark nachos during baseball games. Nachos are about the only thing my sister and I have in common. And my brother: He was my accomplice in those nacho pickings that got me blackballed from el Torito and Pedro's in San Jose, California.
To this day I'm not so sure nachos have added a single cubit to my life other than the numerous and ephemeral delights I've experienced while eating them. But that's about all the convincing I need when my friends ask if I want to go halves on a plate of warm, crisp, cheesy, delicious nachos.
Joshua Longobardy
*****
It's probably unfair to blame the dead for my addiction to convenience-store honey buns, but if my grandmother didn't introduce me to their glazed, cakey goodness, I wouldn't be hooked today.
It's also a bit callous and insensitive to compare my jones to a drug addiction, but all the signs are there: not telling my wife, sneaking into off-the-beaten path stores for my fix, using cash for purchases, sucking on a breath mint to overpower honey-bun residue. On several occasions I've had to fess up to wifey, honey-bun crumbs on face and shirt. Other times, I lied. Now, consider this: While I was on a 1,700-calorie, carb-depleted, exercise-two-times-a-day health kick, the one indulgence I allowed myself was ... tofu! Just kidding. Me had to have honey buns.
I had it all figured out: Skip breakfast, lunch and afternoon snack, and I could eat two honey buns. They actually had 20 fewer calories—I was doing my body a favor. Then I stepped on that scale: Four weeks of back-breaking gym work and I gained weight? Like most addicts, I blamed everything but the culprit. Since when did no-name minimarts start carrying honey buns—for 50 cents apiece? That's enabling me! And all these great athletes admitting to having a sweet tooth—Cincinnati Bengals wide receiver Chad Johnson, boxer Roy Jones? That's music to my ears.
It's lunch time, and I'm going for a honey bun. Hey, admitting powerlessness over addiction is part of the recovery process.
Damon Hodge
*****
It started with the elementary-school soda machine. For 25 cents I was introduced to Mountain Dew. My first thought was that I'd found a replacement for water. I should've, however, been contemplating the replacement of my teeth. Twenty years later, I credit the Dew for most of my fillings. I have so much metal in my mouth, I technically qualify as a cyborg.
My sweet tooth may have led me to the beverage, but it was the caffeine that made me stay. With far more caffeine than comparable sodas, Mountain Dew was coffee for kids. A 12-pack could get me through anything—an all-night cram session or a party I'd attend instead.
I can't admit that it's bad for me. I'll deny myself fast food; I'll give up candy; but I can't quite accept that Mountain Dew has as many empty calories or as much sugar. It's liquid—it shouldn't count!
I could try Diet Mountain Dew, but then I could try non-alcoholic beer, too. What's the point?
Matthew Scott Hunter