Chilies come in all shapes, sizes, denominations, and flavors–mild to wild. Some treat you right with a little heat, a little substance, a lingering on the tip of the tongue. Others come at you so hard you think you'll never be able to breathe or taste or talk again, ever. Chilies demand respect.

I like them all, but the ones I like best are the ones that mix and mingle, lend some flavor and take some away, like good dinner companions after a fine meal, conversing, creating a whole that is infinitely greater than any of its parts, a whole that lingers in the soul forever.

I boil and can this chili conversation in the name of salsa, which is, I think, why God created the chili pepper, just for the company of its friends–onion, cilantro, garlic, tomato, vinegar, salt, and, at times, other, more exotic, companions.

Why chili peppers? Because life should be lived in a Habenero way, with taste and heat, lending and taking, freely with no reservations, mixing easily and naturally, and giving good measure to every moment. To live in this way, I think, is to bring heaven to earth. And that, of course, is the whole point, isn't it?