About
Keeping my own independent journal suits me. Although I have a presence on several social media platforms as 'Spicemad', I rarely post on them. I've never been one for the social media headspace, which is usually overrun by competitive a-holes, vain narcissists with bragging rights, and curtain twitchers who could eat corn on the cob through a Venetian blind without dripping butter. I learnt to spot that behaviour very quickly from a young age. Growing up in North Wales, UK, small-town gossip and horse sh*t on the road were daily occurrences; what people didn't understand, they simply made up. Many of the people I grew up around had more faces than the town hall clock. But of course, in order for gossip to flow freely, it also needed suspicious minds. Like a kilo of cocaine, it started out with 90 percent purity, but by the time all of the middlemen had taken their cuts and reduced it down by mixing it with something else, there were several variants of the same rumour in circulation at once! "Are you sure? Because that's not the version I was told... I was told that he'd already been to the garage by that point. It was later on that he was spotted squatting down behind Mrs Ellis's hedge." ๐
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| The Eternal Consciousness |
Aside from the arms race amongst seasoned housewives to possess the whitest net curtains on the street (which obviously meant they were looking in each other's windows), we also had the well-known gossipers who would make excuses to go from house to house like ancient Greek Olympians armed with fresh eggs or cooking apples. Their goal, of course, was to strike up conversations, which inevitably led to the spread of gossip. One person would find something out from another, and before you knew it, everyone within a five-mile radius knew that Mrs Roberts' haemorrhoids had flared up again, that Mrs Evans' dog had killed Mr Jones' cat, and that the only way Mrs Hughes could get the dog to drop the cat's head was to entice him with a Twix! Just the mere sight of two well-known town gossips walking towards each other in the street with outstretched arms and excited grins on their faces was like looking at two railway tracks about to connect. It was a sure sign that a new delivery of gossip was about to arrive at the station, ready to be distributed among the townsfolk accordingly, in both English and Cymraeg.
Stan "The Feeler" was a local gossiper and a pervert who knew everyone. On several occasions, he had appeared in court and in local newspapers after being accused of groping women. He was regularly seen buzzing around the town on a dilapidated broomstick which had received more than its fair share of new engines. People often claimed that their hearts sank the moment they spotted him, instantly plotting an escape route to avoid getting caught in his backdraft, which usually smelled of cooking fat and vinegar. He patrolled the town and its outskirts like a wasp on a leisurely flight. His presence felt like a swirling dust devil of static electricity, altering the atmospheric charge and often manifesting around the seasoned gossipers he uncannily always knew how to find. He belonged to a more evolved species that had learnt to use other gossipers to its advantage. After parasitizing his hosts with freshly laid eggs of slander, and leaving them feeling defensive, he'd fly away, abandoning only the hum of his broomstick and the fading echo of a witchy cackle, confident that his young would be adequately nourished and soon to hatch.
Loudmouthed Cockney Jack was another known gossiper who unintentionally also acted like a town crier. When certain female manipulators wanted any free advertising, Jack was often their first choice. Armed with an assorted array of cream cakes and currant buns, these cunning female alchemists would nip around to Jack's for coffee with him and his wife, Jackie. They would strike up conversations in the usual manner. Right before delivering the deep, juicy parts, the gossipers — always women, appearing either singly or in pairs — would lower their voices in a way that gave the impression the walls had ears, even though there were only the three of them in attendance (or so they thought). Perhaps this was done to program Jack's brain by bypassing his public directory and inserting the juicy parts of the conversation into his subconscious directory instead. It was like putting money into a jukebox and selecting a song — except the currency being used was cream cake instead of coins. Jack’s voice was remarkably loud and physically incapable of functioning below a certain decibel — a system flaw that these female alchemists were deliberately exploiting. Within hours, the information was broadcast from the rooftops for all to hear, and nobody ever got to find out the original source. The only part of a secret Jack could keep was the name of the person who told it to him. It was pure genius! ๐คซ
Everyone could apparently keep a secret, and they all had a close friend or a relation that they could trust dearly. But it didn't stop the rest of the town from finding out that Mrs Fletcher had nagged Mr Fletcher to such an extent that it caused him to have a nervous breakdown. He ended up in the local mental institution, where he was strapped to a table and given electric shocks! He and his reputation were never the same afterwards. It became quite common to see him down at the bottom of the garden, smashing something to pieces with a walking stick, while his wife watched on with folded arms and an unamused look on her face — the sort of expression she would give when the bus she was waiting for wasn't on time. "He was at it again last night in the garden. I don't know what happened this time. She must have wound him up." ๐
Imagine the horror of the townsfolk when they found out that dear old Keith Jones — a regular churchgoer, well-respected conker, and gossiper extraordinaire — was a closeted homosexual who had given his innocent wife a sexually transmitted disease! It would seem that she was the only person who didn't know what he was getting up to. Then there was the story about poor Thomas Wyn, who had a crush on a girl who later turned out to be his cousin, forcing his father to step in and put a stop to it! Poor Trevor wasn't so lucky. By the time someone had worked out that he and his fiancรฉe were related, the two of them had already had a child with a Habsburg jaw, whom they affectionately named Michelle. Then there was the legendary incident where Henry went on a blind date and ended up meeting a woman who looked like a female version of himself, leading to both of them looking at each other with mutual suspicion, thinking that the other was playing a practical joke! ๐
In a place like this, maintaining privacy was never easy — it was a skill in and of itself. And to make matters worse, Gwyn Thomas had recently started a rumor that the Chinese had been whispering behind everyone's backs, simply because someone had explained the concept of "Chinese whispers" to him in the pub after he'd drunk several pints of the local brew, and he took it completely literally! It took several weeks, apparently, for the local fish and chip shops to start filling up again. The rumor nearly put them out of business because, according to local legend, the takeaways were all secretly run by the Chinese mafia, whose main headquarters within the North Wales criminal underworld was Llandudno. "They're all owned by the Triads. All of them have to pay a certain amount each month or they'll go there and burn it down!" ๐ฌ
And who could ever forget the time Mrs Roberts thought she’d seen the ghost of Mrs Ellis sitting on a bench at the bottom of St George Road puffing on a cigarette? As it turned out, Mrs Owens had told everyone the week before that the poor woman had died, when she was actually just keeping a low profile because she was fed up with all the gossip. In reality, it was Mr Crowley who had passed away under mysterious circumstances. Nobody ever worked out exactly what happened, but given how he used to beat his wife and their son was an expert on poisons, the townsfolk put one and three together and came up with six! It didn't take long for the rumours to start about the son being a criminal mastermind. "Yeah, well, it's obvious what happened... I think he got fed up of his dad hitting his mum and he used something to bump him off. Something that he knew the police would never be able to find!" ๐ฒ
"The whole wood is full of her spies. Even some of the trees are on her side." ๐ฌ
Of course, everyone also knew that Mrs Lloyd was a certified man-eater who was entirely responsible for putting her husband in an early grave. Rumour had it, the poor man didn't even get a chance to eat his tea after a long shift, because the moment he walked through the front door, she had him straight upstairs in the bedroom for a shag — much to the annoyance of Mr and Mrs Parry who lived next door and were already severely traumatised by the sound of knocking boots, which they assumed at first was the ghost of the late Rev Llewelyn Evans. When curious kids asked why one of Mrs Lloyd's sons was much darker than the other nine, defensive parents would quickly tell them it was because she took too many iron tablets when she was carrying him. The story they told down at the social club was a slightly different version — one that involved a snooker table and the local darts team. "She only has a bath once in a blue moon. When she has a dress on you can see how dirty her legs are. You can even see streaks in the muck where trickles of p*ss have ran down her legs!" ๐
It was widely known that Mr and Mrs Hopkins, who lived in the corner house, were kinky. It turns out that during an innocent game of hide-and-seek after school, Mrs Evans' son and the Hopkins kids stumbled across a pair of handcuffs, a black mask, shiny boots, and a whip hidden under the four-poster bed. Given how neither of them was known to have an interest in horse riding, rumours soon abounded about which of the two was the more dominant. Due to his smoothly shaved head, it was Mr Hopkins who used to get all of the dirty looks, but some would stare directly at his wife, who was a small, plump lady with legs like Nijinsky, and cross the road whenever they saw her coming! "Eww, perish the thought! Dirty ba*tards. I wouldn't mind, but neither of them are attractive. The thought of him on all fours being whipped by that thing... Nah... I don't wanna think about it. It will put me off my tea." ๐
Someone once started the rumour that there was a bad batch of LSD in circulation. It turned out that Scouse Steve, due to a rather odd set of circumstances, had accidentally ended up stumbling into the back function room of a well-known hotel on the outskirts of Denbigh where a secret Welsh nationalist gathering was taking place. Many of the people in attendance were already familiar faces, he knew perfectly well they could speak fluent English, and yet he just couldn't understand why they refused point-blank to utter a single word of it, leading him to think that everyone in the room had been poisoned and that he was next on the list! Speaking of poisons, who could ever forget the time that someone "accidentally fed" Mr and Mrs Miller's son the wrong kind of mushrooms, sending him on a rampage around town with a baseball bat, smashing any window that he could see his own reflection in? He was never the same afterwards, especially if his choice of hair colour was anything to go by!
And last, but by no means least, there was the slightly backward Irish boy who had been befriended by a local lesbian couple. Feeling sorry for him, they regularly plied him with free cigarettes and alcohol. One morning around 2:00 AM, stumbling around in a drunken stupor with a bulge at the front of his trousers, he banged on their door. Like something from a fast-paced comedy scene, the moment the latch turned, he barged inside, bolted up the stairs, and dove into bed with one of the women. A roaring argument erupted in the street, culminating in him hoisting the larger of the two and hurling her over three parked cars. It was an extraordinary display of superhuman strength, given her substantial size! He quickly gained a cartoon-superhero-like status among the locals until he was accused of breaking into a nearby church one morning and ringing the bells at 4:30 AM! "I've tackled my fair share of men in my time. Some of them were BIG buggers too! But NEVER in my life have I EVER come across a boy with that kind of strength!!! He LITERALLY picked me up like it was nothing and then tossed me like a ragdoll! I wouldn't mind, but I'm no lightweight... The only way I could keep him calm until the police arrived was by giving him more lager." ๐
Everyone had an 'aunty' who wasn't actually a blood relation — or at least, that's what they all thought at the time. As coincidence would have it, they usually lived near a busy hub of some description, be it a bus stop, an intersection, or a pub. They were usually aged 70 or upwards and always had a huge collection of 50-pence pieces, which was the only coin the electric meters would accept in some areas. They also had the cleanest front windows and garden paths. Their bara brith — a traditional Welsh tea bread packed with dried fruit, spices, and tea — was always the talk of the town. But woe betide anyone who ever dared to call it a fruit loaf! "I was speaking to Aunty Emily whilst waiting for the bus. She said Mr Hughes hasn't been at all well. Apparently, he had a nasty fall in the garden a couple of weeks ago and he hasn't been right ever since. She also said the police were around at number 5 again the other night..." ๐คซ
In hindsight, it's no wonder the psychic who worked at the local corner shop was so damn accurate. She should have applied for a job at MI5! Everyone knew everyone else's business. It was like looking at the shattered pieces of an old Roman vase that was trying to remember itself and become whole again. The only people who kept to themselves were the family of Portuguese Jews who lived at the bottom of the road. They just tinkered with machines and electronics and went hunting for rabbits, foxes, and deer instead. And before you think it's all made up, it's not. These are true stories that happened over time. All I did was change the names and use a lot of metaphors to paint a more abstract picture. The safest way to avoid being on the radar was to only leave the house after nightfall. Of course, nowadays we have CCTV and internet surveillance, but even they've got nothing on that lot. Not much has really changed, except most of it takes place on screens and through Facebook Messenger. If the burqa were as common back then as it is today, I swear to the Gods I would have worn one religiously — excuse the pun — each time I left the house. So yeah, you'll have to forgive me for not being a huge fan of social media...
Who Is Spicemad?
Spicemad is my pseudonym. My real name is Johnathan Kidding (John for short), and I began using the pseudonym 'Spicemad' in early 2009 while registering on a chilli-growing forum. I needed a new username, and it was the first one that popped into my head. As you can tell, not much thought went into it, but the name just stuck. Ever since then, people have referred to me as 'Spice', 'Spicy', or 'Spicemad' (along with other names which are far too crude to mention here). Some people consider me eccentric, some enigmatic, and others very cryptic. Some even consider me to be all three. However, the MI6 files simply state: 'Suspected Russian spy going by the codename Agent Just'. I don't suppose you can please everybody... Then again, 'everybody's friend is everybody's fool', as the saying goes. In truth, the reality is far stranger than most of you could ever imagine.
Nobody knows who I am — not that it matters. I try to keep a low profile on the internet, but it's not working out very well. Three-letter government agencies keep sending me friend requests on the very accounts that are supposed to be completely covert! It all started after Tarquin posted some holiday snaps of us both feasting on cruditรฉs at the Kremlin whilst standing next to a cardboard cutout of Vladimir Putin and Vladislav Surkov. I'm dangerously sleep-deprived. I function on just four hours of broken sleep each night, along with heroic doses of theobromine, ice baths or freezing showers, and copious amounts of capsaicin with my one meal per day. Anything more than four hours of sleep is considered a luxury for most civilians — but anything less is just a normal Wednesday for me.
I'm neither left-wing nor right-wing; I am the third neutral point that refuses to be polarised and tamed, much to the annoyance of people who've tried scaling the walls of my castle. Of all the things I've lost, the thing I miss the least is my mind. I figured out a long time ago that the mind is not a friend; it's the enemy! At least when it's not used with a healthy balance of logic and emotion. Tarquin and I firmly believe that inside every human head there's a canvas and an ever-evolving piece of art designed by the controlling faction. For most people, it's like having a room in the home where someone else makes the decisions about all the decor and furnishings. There's only one photo of me on the interwebs — which is just as well really, considering how ugly I am! I've got one of those faces that the human mind would rather forget and replace, which is always a shock to people when they see me for a second or third time. If you try to visualise a skinnier, more gaunt version of Lotney "Sloth" Fratelli from The Goonies, then you won't be far off!
I have a terrible allergy to red roses, a bad habit of standing on one leg, and a constant urge to close my right eye. I have a lifelong affinity for water (rivers, lakes, streams, rain, oceans, ponds, and man-made pools), and I reside at the intersection of East and West, a vantage point that mirrors the blend of local roots and global curiosity that defines my journey. Alcohol makes me hang out of upstairs windows, and horror movies annoy the p*ss out of me. I refuse to discard a healthy sock just because its twin has a hole in it; therefore, I can often be seen wearing odd socks. I hate mattresses with a passion and can only sleep on hard floors. I don't just see colours, I can taste them too if they're vivid enough. Emerald green is one of my favourite flavours. The shinier, the better. I like food to be warm and not piping hot. I've never understood what enjoyment someone gets from rolling a steaming-hot potato around in their mouth. When I leave the house after nightfall, I'm often followed by someone in a four-by-four pickup truck that I have yet to see, and someone keeps insisting on flying a drone over my place of residence. (I've had nothing but trouble since Tarquin was gifted that new chemistry set. I don't know what's worse, the Carolina Reaper fumes coming from the kitchen or the toxic red smoke coming from the dish where he dropped a copper coin into the nitric acid! That bloody boy!)
I have my own military band that plays recurring tunes inside my head. They're all heavily clad in rainbow-coloured garments; even the chickens play the trumpet. Incidentally, grandmother was impersonating a chicken when they carted her off! People line the streets by the hundreds to watch them perform, but the appearances are completely random and unpredictable. They're performing as I write this. Perhaps one day you'll all hear the same thing and line the streets tapping your feet to one of several extremely repetitive, long-form tunes that strangely never get old. We're now recruiting for a pianist and a chandelier swinger. Rehearsas may last several days or weeks. I also keep having a persistent vision in my mind's eye of a brown-haired witch sitting at a mahogany desk next to a table lamp, casting spells from a green book with a dark wooden bookshelf behind her. If that's you and you're reading this, I think our signals might be clashing. I'd rather avoid having a router dispute if possible. Can you do me a favour, dear, and change the channel on your router? I'm currently broadcasting on channel 23. Stay in your own lane, please. You're driving me mad and jamming my frequencies.
In hindsight, I've always been plagued by Jezebels. They're like squirrels scratching for a way into my castle so they can eat my stash of nuts. I used to correspond with a man who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was a "former" CIA employee. After we had a falling-out via email, strange figures began popping up in my digital world. They seem to have acted as a filter between me and the rest of the digital expanse ever since! It must have been something I said. Mind you, I always got the impression that he wasn't actually communicating with me directly, but that he was trying to get in touch with someone else — maybe Satan or the Queen in her hidden residence — and that I was just the conduit. Like he was trying to place an order at a McDonald's drive-through. However, he did once tell me to put the Queen in her temple, so maybe it wasn't Satan he was interested in. Those of you elsewhere in the digital expanse who may have heard negative things about me, perhaps you should compare notes one rainy afternoon and try to find out if the information came from the same person — which IS so often the case. That which appears separately to many of you forms a whole for Tarquin and me. ๐น
Tarquin and I inherited Daddy's ability to spot patterns. Some say it's an evolutionary trait that comes from being born and raised in a small town. To others, it's very frustrating. They say it's akin to a husband trying to sneak out of the house at night without being seen by his wife, only to turn around and find that she's been standing behind him and watching the entire time. Paranoia has been demonised and carries negative connotations, but the military train some of their soldiers to use it as a tool. Outside of a mental illness, where it can be extremely cruel, paranoia is a very useful tool to have in one's arsenal. Intelligence agencies obviously need to operate on the periphery of human psychology in order for things to be effective; therefore, it's understandable why they might want to control people's perception of reality. In a busy part of London, Tarquin and I saw a double-decker bus, carrying one solitary passenger, stop at the traffic lights — which were conveniently on red. This created a rather convenient barrier between the angry, flag-waving protesters on one side and the Range Rover carrying the Israeli Prime Minister on the other. The rest of you saw Mrs Ahmed doing the school run...
The clattering of cans and the meowing of cats could be heard coming from outside. "Shut up, will you!" yelled the Queen at the top of her voice. "It sounds like you're trying to kill Spicemad next door."
Windows work both ways: just as you can look out, someone else can look in. Most of you assumed the 'mad' in 'Spicemad' meant I was mad about spicy food. I had you all fooled! All in all, I'm quite bonkers, and I make no apologies for it. Plenty of people have tried scaling the walls of my castle and failed miserably, always searching for a crack in the brickwork so they can get inside. However, by trying, all they've ever done is inspire me even more. It's best not to get too close. Some people are fantastic teachers; they just don't realise it. I don't fill silence just to give you more information. I only share what I want you to know. I don't worry about what others think; it's pointless because it's an energy I have no control over. I refuse to be policed by the masses. And if any of you horrible lot have come here looking to buy synthetic cannabinoids, then I'm very sorry to disappoint you. You won't find anything like that here. I only sell them from my other website — though we're currently out of stock. Luckily, Jemima will be cooking up a fresh batch tomorrow afternoon when she gets back from Patagonia. The only chemical being weaponised on this website is capsaicin (which is a joke, by the way). The last time I used homemade pepper spray on Tarquin and Jemima, it put them off their avocados and pitta bread for nearly a week! Little Paris and Tokyo caught the back end of it, too, and were sent home from ballet lessons due to persistent coughing. Poor Paris even cracked a rib!
Tarquin and I believe that humans are eternal beings who in our true spiritual state normally hang out in a place of total clarity. But that gets old due to too much perfection and too little mystery. Therefore, occasionally we ditch the omniscience, slip into a human meat suit and take a break on the merry-go-round of existence. This allows us to have a taste of confusion and discovery on the eternal journey, like geeky tourists in our own made-up worlds. Basically, we're all tentacles of the same swirling octopus, and we make these lives up to give ourselves something to do.
What Is This Website About?
This website (spicemad.com) is all about flatulence and chilli peppers — a place where you can find chilli-based recipes, information on different chilli varieties, thousands of chilli pepper photos, and more. It all began back in 2017 whilst tidying up the hard drive on my laptop. I noticed that I had a few thousand photos of chilli plants going back to 2012. Previously, some of the photos had been shown on a forum, on photo-sharing websites such as Photobucket and Flickr, and in Facebook groups. However, by 2017 they'd all been removed from the aforementioned websites for one reason or another, and the only person who ever got to see them was me. It was at that point that I had the idea of creating a website, and after much contemplation I eventually created this one in early 2018. I thought it would be a fun idea to post updates on the progress of my chilli plants each season, and also to share information and spicy recipes with other chilli-heads.
When on the home page you're viewing the actual blog. This is where I post updates on the chilli plants throughout the growing season, and occasionally other chilli related stuff too. You will see some red navigation links below the blog title. These links lead to other areas of the website, which is comprised of pages and not blog posts. You can also find the same navigation links (plus a few more) in the sidebar, which can be accessed by clicking the white hamburger button (which only appears when viewing the homepage) to the top left of the blog title. In the sidebar, you will find a list of commonly used labels on the blog and also an archive of blog posts going back to February 2018. By scrolling down to the bottom of the sidebar you can also view the image count (the number of images currently on the website), the date on which the website was last updated and a total page views count (the number of visitors to the website)
Not all pages on the website reside along the beaten path of the navigation menus. You'll have to draw your sword and hack through the dense undergrowth of chilli plants if you want to find them all. There might even be a few hidden gems along the way! Some pages are not easy to find (which is done on purpose), some are not indexed by search engines (noindex, nofollow robots meta tags), and some may only be linked once or twice throughout the entire website. For those with the eyes to see, some pages contain only the codes for where to find me in my other realms. I don't promote this place at all. It's just a side project. People either find it or they don't. Those who have an interest in the garbage I create can come and take a look, and those who have zero interest can look at something else instead.
You can view photos of some chilli varieties I've grown since 2012 by visiting the Grow List page. That was when I first started saving photos of the chilli plants. All photos from the three previous growing seasons were taken using a sh*tty mobile phone camera and have long since vanished. You can also view a list of the chilli varieties I'm growing this season, if you're interested. Each season, I like to grow some of my trusty old favourites and introduce at least one new variety to the tribe. I've grown and tried lots of different chilli varieties, but my favourite is the Chocolate Habanero. I'm not obsessed with superhot varieties like some people are, and I have no interest in all of the countless superhot hybrids that exist today.
I've never really been one for 'chasing the heat'. I do grow superhot varieties which I use in my cooking occasionally, but I have no interest in growing the world's current hottest chilli just for the sake of it. In my opinion, there are several superhot varieties that have the genetic potential to all become the world's hottest chilli. Call me a cynic, but many of the world's hottest chillies have always been associated with people who either sell chilli seeds, chilli-based products or both. It's an effective way to get people's attention and put your business on the map. Even those who already market chilli sauces and other chilli-based products can still benefit from such a creation by marketing new products which contain said world's hottest chilli. I tend to favour the old-school superhot varieties over the countless new superhot hybrids that exist today. I often wonder whether some superhot varieties were created by placing seeds inside a nuclear reactor for gene alterations. It would add a whole new meaning to the label of 'nuclear hot'... ๐
Where Do You Grow Your Chilli Plants?
Some seasons I may only grow chilli plants indoors near windows and in a small porch, and other seasons I may grow them indoors and outdoors in a greenhouse and in the garden. Capsicum pubescens varieties and most of the wild varieties are typically grown outside in the garden. However, all other varieties are typically grown indoors or outdoors under cover. I use a bog-standard heated propagator for germinating the chilli seeds, and all seeds, regardless of the species, are typically sown at the same time, somewhere between the beginning of January and the middle of February. On rare occasions, I may start the chilli seeds off under grow lights, and in such cases, I normally stagger the sowing times for each species. Most of the chillies I harvest are frozen, but some are pickled and others are also dried. The frozen chillies are used up over the following months in my hot sauce recipe and in general day-to-day cooking.
How Did You Develop an Interest in Chillies?
I've always enjoyed spicy food, even from an early age. Curry was and still is one of my favourite foods. When I was growing up, the type of curries that most people cooked in the UK were the typical Anglo-Indian curries made using commercially sold curry powder. These types of curries were simple to make and usually contained pre-cooked meat, sultanas and large chunks of fried onion. They were normally served with plain boiled rice or chips.
In my late teens, someone bought me a curry book, and most of the recipes listed within called for exotic ingredients that I'd never heard of before. For that reason, the book was shelved for several months. Then for Christmas, my younger brother (RIP) bought me an Indian cookery book that came in a box with small bags of sample spices. It was around that time that I first got into cooking, and on Boxing Day, I made a vindaloo. Everyone complained because it was too spicy and didn't contain enough salt. "Why does it have little pieces of wood in it? It's like eating potpourri!"
About three weeks later, when all of the sample spices had run out, I went shopping at a Chinese-owned international food store and was able to purchase most of the Indian spices I needed in much larger bags. Spices were all very new to me back then, and it took several weeks before I was finally able to memorise what each one was. Fenugreek seed was always easy to remember because of its distinct curry-like aroma, but I often got confused between green cardamoms and cloves.
The types of chilli peppers available at the supermarkets in North Wales at the time were Bird's Eye, Cayenne, Jalapeรฑo, and numerous hybrid varieties, including red or green finger chillies. On very rare occasions, it was also possible to find Habaneros or Scotch Bonnets, and whenever I stumbled across them, I would always purchase several bags. Due to all the curry-cooking I was doing at the time, I became accustomed to using chilli peppers on a regular basis and was rarely ever without them.
Although I've been growing finger chillies and Scotch Bonnets since around 1994, my interest in growing chilli plants didn't develop properly until 2008, after reading an article in a newspaper about a variety being touted as the hottest in the world — the Dorset Naga! This came as a big surprise to me because, prior to that, I'd always been led to believe that Habaneros and Scotch Bonnets were the hottest chillies known to man. Knowing that Dorset Naga chillies wouldn't be for sale in the shops or supermarkets in North Wales, I decided to look for more information about them online. It wasn't very long before I discovered a website selling fresh ones, and so I purchased two bags of them, along with a bag of mild Habaneros.
The much-awaited day came when they finally arrived in the post. I removed them from the box and placed them into a small fruit bowl on the kitchen table. They were real things of beauty! Being the keen gardener that he was, my dad (RIP) was very intrigued by them, and so naturally he became the first person to try a piece. After a few seconds of chewing, his face turned bright red, his eyes started watering, and with a look of sheer disgust and horror on his face, he spat it out and said, "Whoever eats these things has got a fu*king death wish!"
That very same evening, I added one to a chicken phall curry and was blown away by the searing heat and amazing flavour. After tasting the Dorset Naga chilli for the first time, I instantly knew what the local Bangladeshi-owned Indian takeaway was using to spice up the chicken vindaloo with extra chilli that I ordered on very rare occasions — Naga Morich. It all made perfect sense given how the Dorset Naga is a selectively grown Bangladeshi Naga Morich and that Bangladeshis hold Naga Morich in very high regard, often referring to it as the 'queen of chillies'. Naga Morich chillies can sometimes be seen at Indian grocery stores in a basket lined with a gold or silver cloth next to the checkout, and they are nearly always sold at the green stage.
That same year, I purchased several more bags of Dorset Naga chillies and took seeds from two or three of the largest ripe pods and dried them out so that I could grow my own plants the following year. In the months leading up to March 2009, I spent a lot of time watching chilli reviews on YouTube and purchased seeds for many more chilli varieties, most of which were very hot ones and nearly all of which I'd never heard of before.
During the first week of March 2009, I purchased a heated propagator and a bag of compost and sowed all of the chilli seeds. From memory, the varieties sown that year were: Trinidad 7-Pot, Trinidad Scorpion, Bhut Jolokia, Chocolate Bhut Jolokia, Dorset Naga, Naga Morich, Fatalii, Caribbean Red Habanero, Orange Habanero, Aji Lemon, Golden Cayenne, Jalapeรฑo, Prairie Fire, and Chiltepin. Within three weeks of sowing the seeds, all varieties had germinated. The plants were grown on windowsills in 3-litre pots, and all except for the Chiltepin plants produced fruit. In their first year, the Chiltepin plants were nothing more than tall stems, but I kept them over winter and the following spring re-potted them into much larger pots. Eventually, they turned into large bushes and produced hundreds of pea-sized chillies which ripened from dark green to bright red.
After my first growing season, I became addicted to growing chilli plants and my obsession with them still continues to this day. Contemplating which new varieties to grow at the end of each season, and looking forward to sowing the seeds, helps me through the dark times of winter, as I imagine it does for many chilli-heads. Most of the chilli-heads I know sow their seeds in late winter and then check on them several times a day like expecting parents. I don't consider myself to be an expert on growing chilli plants; I just grow them as a hobby and because I love eating them. The entire process is a journey and a learning curve for me, and each season I always seem to learn something new. Growing chilli plants is great fun! There are literally thousands of chilli varieties in the world, so finding new ones to grow is never difficult.
Anyway, if you've managed to read until the end, then I congratulate you! Nowadays, most people have the attention span of a gnat and would rather sit and watch a video on YouTube, Facebook or TikTok than read an actual webpage. Give it a couple of decades, and most of the bipedal herd animals roaming around on this planet will no longer be able to read and write. Instead, they'll just be a bunch of narcissistic, dumbed-down consumers who only know how to take a selfie and find the report button on social media platforms. If you'd like to get in touch for any reason, then please feel free to do so. I'm very easy to contact. You can find my email address on the contact page.
If one day you figure out that you're stuck on an eternal merry-go-round, then it's okay to imagine yourself being somewhere else occasionally. ~ Spicemad (collector of all things hyphenated)
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.jpg "Chilli Harvest - 1st September 2023")
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