Which spicy foods—if any—do you enjoy? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
Pepperhead - that’s the nickname my aunt gave me -- she, who couldn’t handle even the tiniest dash of black pepper. “Nothing’s hot to a pepperhead like you!” she would tease, shaking her head at family gatherings as I reached for the ever-present bottle of hot sauce that, alongside the salt and pepper shakers, always graced our kitchen table.
In Black households across America, hot sauce is more than just a condiment—it’s a cultural touchstone, a necessary presence at any gathering where food is served. You’ll find it at Sunday dinners, fish fries, barbecues, and funeral repasts. It doesn’t matter if the spread includes fried chicken, black-eyed peas, or even dishes that some might consider already perfectly seasoned—somebody’s going to reach for that bottle of liquid fire. And if, by some oversight, there isn’t any hot sauce on the table, you can bet someone’s making a quick run to the store. Remember that scene in the movie “Soul Food” when the family gathers around the Sunday dinner table, and someone calls out, “Pass the hot sauce”? That small moment captured something profound about us – that bottle isn’t just a condiment, it’s communion. That’s just how we do.
This connection between Black folk and flavorful, spicy food runs deep— back to our African roots and through the painful journey of the Middle Passage. During slavery, when our ancestors were given the poorest cuts of meat and the blandest rations, they found ways to make these meager offerings palatable by incorporating spices and peppers, many brought from Africa. What began as necessity evolved into culinary genius, a testament to resilience and cultural preservation.
Remember that scene in the movie “Soul Food” when the family gathers around the Sunday dinner table, and someone calls out, “Pass the hot sauce”? That small moment captured something profound about us – that bottle isn’t just a condiment, it’s communion. That’s just how we do.
I must have eaten over 10,000 meals in my grandparents’ cozy kitchen in Marshall, Texas. I had to do the math several times because the number seems so crazy, but it’s true. After 10,000 meals, it’s no surprise that I can remember every detail of that smaller-than-some-bathrooms kitchen of my youth. The paneled, swinging door that led to the dining room. The adjoining screened-in porch that held the rounded-corner, pre-frost-free refrigerator—a Frigidaire. A chrome and white General Electric gas stove was situated in one corner, while the washing machine occupied the opposite corner, intentionally positioned next to the single-bowl sink so that the hose could easily drain during wash day. Through the curtained window, my grandmother could easily survey the comings and goings all around 1208 Travis Street.
The kitchen table, Formica-topped and chrome-legged, sat on a nondescript linoleum floor that my grandmother seemed to be eternally mopping. Although the table wasn’t all that big, it was really too big for the kitchen. Consequently, one side was always pushed against the wall, making the table for four a table for three - me, my grandmother, and my grandfather. It became the kids’ table for my cousins, Pettis and Bernard, and me at Christmas. I’ve seen that same Formica and metal table on eBay for $600. They say it’s retro. Who knew? But no matter the meal or occasion, the table’s centerpiece remained constant: salt and pepper shakers, a sugar bowl, a jar of grape jelly, and that essential bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce.
When I visit white friends’ homes and politely eat their unseasoned chicken or “bland” potato salad (you know the kind I’m talking about), I’m reminded of this cultural divide, this unspoken boundary that separates one culinary tradition from another.
In a world where others have so often defined Black culture, that bottle of hot sauce represents something profound – a declaration that we determine our own flavors and set our own standards for what tastes good. When I visit white friends’ homes and politely eat their unseasoned chicken or “bland” potato salad (you know the kind I’m talking about), I’m reminded of this cultural divide, this unspoken boundary that separates one culinary tradition from another. And I think of how many of us carry our own hot sauce in purses and glove compartments – a small act of cultural preservation, a quiet insistence on maintaining our identity in spaces where it might otherwise be diluted.
Anybody who knows me will tell you that I favor highly flavored foods. Ok, let’s be honest - I like spicy foods. The real truth is, the hotter the better. Cayenne? Oh yeah. Jalapeño? Yup. Scotch Bonnet? Bring it on. Habanero? Now we’re talking. I got your Ghost Pepper right here. Right now, in my cabinets, you’ll find a wide assortment of hot sauces: from Yellowbird to Tabasco, from Cholula to one infused with truffle oil, my new favorite.
I sprinkled it over my fried catfish and scrambled eggs, and dug in... to the hottest thing my little five-year-old mouth had ever experienced. My mouth was in a pit of fire. I am sure tears welled up in my eyes. I’m surprised I didn’t lose consciousness. I quickly assessed the situation. I glanced at my grandfather. I could not admit he was right.
Does anybody else put hot sauce on grits? As of this reading, a dash of cayenne pepper is no longer the secret ingredient in my most requested sweet potato pie. Codename: Pepperhead.
You may be wondering why I am such a hot sauce enthusiast. Well, I got it honestly, and I’ve come a long way from my initiation over 60 years ago. My grandfather - Daddy Petties, that’s what we called him - and I sat at that three-sided, Formica kitchen table eating a breakfast of Caddo Lake fried fish and scrambled eggs. I was young, maybe 5, and I saw my grandfather shaking this red liquid stuff on his food.
Me: “What’s that?”
Daddy Petties: “Hot sauce.”
Me: “Is it good?”
Daddy Petties: “Yeah, it’s good.” (He wasn’t a man of many words.)
Me: “I want some.”
Daddy Petties: “No. It’s too hot for you.”
Me: “No, it’s not.”
Daddy Petties: “Yes, it is.”
Me: “No, it’s not.”
This went on for a few more rounds. Finally, he acquiesced.
Daddy Petties: “Ok, here.”
He handed me the bottle and pretended to concentrate on his meal. I took that Louisiana Hot Sauce and did exactly what I saw him do, sprinkled it liberally over my Caddo Lake fried catfish and scrambled eggs, and enthusiastically dug in... to the hottest thing my little five-year-old mouth had ever experienced. My mouth was in a pit of fire. I am sure tears welled up in my eyes. I’m surprised I didn’t lose consciousness. I’m certain I stopped breathing for a moment; then, catching my breath, I quickly assessed the situation. I glanced at my grandfather. I could not admit he was right. I momentarily considered a nearby glass of iced water. But I could not -- would not -- express my distress. I stared down at my Louisiana Hot Sauce-covered Caddo Lake fried catfish and scrambled eggs, looked back at my grandfather, and in the strongest voice I could muster, and way more cheerfully than I felt, confirmed his opinion: “You’re right. It sure is good.” And proceeded to take another bite.
In that moment, I wasn’t just eating hot sauce – I was claiming my place at the adult table. Like Eddie Murphy’s Axel Foley casually pouring hot sauce on his sandwich in Beverly Hills Cop II, unfazed while those around him squirmed, I was demonstrating my toughness, my belonging. It was more than stubbornness; it was about proving to my grandfather that I could handle what he could, that we were cut from the same cloth. In a world that so often tells Black children they aren’t enough – not smart enough, not good enough, not worthy enough – this simple act of eating something reserved for adults became an assertion of my worth, my readiness to join the ranks of the grown.
Thus began my lifelong love affair with all things red hot, spicy, and fiery. That moment either defined or revealed something about my adventurous spirit and my need to be right about who I am. It’s been more than 60 years since that fiery, fateful morning with my grandfather, and probably 10,000 bottles later, I am still defiant and always up for a challenge. Just like that bottle of hot sauce that never left our kitchen table, some things are meant to be part of who you are. Codename: Pepperhead.
Which spicy foods—if any—do you enjoy? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
