I started with lamb skewers, but these weren't your garden-variety barbecue fare. I marinated the meat in a blend that would have made a jalapeño pepper file a restraining order. Ghost pepper powder, Carolina Reaper flakes, habanero sauce, and enough seed to strip paint. Then I added some Thai bird's-eye chilies for texture and a generous helping of wasabi paste because why the hell not.
While the lamb was absorbing its payload of thermal warfare, I moved on to the garlic prawns. Now, I love garlic as much as the next guy, but this was garlic with a purpose. I used about 10 cloves where a normal recipe would call for two. Then I added garlic powder, garlic salt, and some black garlic I'd been saving for a special occasion.
The prawns were swimming in enough garlic to ward off every vampire in a five-state radius. But the pièce de résistance was the chili crab. I'd ordered it from that Singaporean place downtown, the one that advertises their authentic volcanic heat and makes you sign a waiver before they'll serve you their spiciest dishes. This wasn't just food.
This was a weaponized dining experience that came with its own fire extinguisher. "Smells amazing in there," Marissa called from the living room, her voice still carrying that pathetic wounded quality. "What are you making?" "Just some of your favorites," I called back, grinning as I arranged everything on a platter that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant.
"I know you've been stressed lately, so I wanted to do something special." Stressed, right? Nothing quite like being surgically separated from your lover to really ramp up those stress levels. I brought the feast out on a tray complete with cloth napkins and our good silverware.
The presentation was beautiful, restaurant-quality plating that disguised the fact that I'd essentially created a meal designed to torture someone with compromised internal geography. "Oh, wow," Marissa said, struggling to sit up straighter on the couch. "This looks incredible. You really didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"No trouble at all," I assured her, settling the tray on the coffee table within easy reach. "I know how much you love spicy food. And after the night you've had, I figured you could use some comfort food." That was the beauty of my plan.
Marissa did love spicy food. Under normal circumstances, she could handle heat that would send most people running for milk. But these weren't normal circumstances, were they? Her entire digestive system was probably already in revolt from stress, painkillers, and whatever hospital food they'd forced on her during her extended stay in medical hell.
She took her first bite of the lamb, and I watched her face like a hawk studying a field mouse. For a split second, her expression was pure appreciation. The meat was perfectly cooked. The flavors were complex and well-balanced, and under any other circumstances, it would have been a genuinely excellent meal.
Then the heat hit. It started as a slight widening of her eyes, followed by a pause in her chewing, then a very careful swallow that suggested she was already regretting her life choices. But she was committed now, trapped by the need to maintain her everything-is-fine facade. "This is really good," she said, reaching for her water glass with movements that were just a little too quick to be casual.