Until I lived with Al Jones of Unity, Saskatchewan in 1989, I could not bear hot sauce. Given the choice of burning my insides or putting up with the jeering taunts of this one of Unity's sons, a mad young caffine stoned loud loud loud W.O. Mitchell, libertarian without politics, cousin to Lawrence Welk (who I will note now - years later with most of a continent between me and Mr Jones - never was known to brag up his secret Saskatchewan past), I learned to eat hot sauce on everything. Now, the perfect tonic for a slow morning is a blue cheese and Franks Hot sauce sandwich after having your back slathered with Tiger Balm. Cure for stuffed sinuses? Cabbage soup with Malaysian hot chili paste.

Tonight, I took some of the sweet peaches that have just hit town with that 36-hour limit before they start to go, squeezed them, mashed them, sieved them, adding Hungarian hot sauce and good dry sherry to the juice. Pour it on salmon, ice cream or aching muscles or joints. Good fo ya. Add just enough heat that after the first bite you have to jump out of your chair, wiping each flowing eye and nostral, shouting "Jesus, sweet Jesus on the cross, that is ache-oh-tee...HOT!...whew..." before you remember two children are at the table quietly staring at their Daddy.