Oops!

My beau and I went to a new restaurant that was kind of a Mongolian grill - you know, those restaurants where you create your own stirfry? You take a bowl and wander dazedly past walls of meats and veggies and sauces and seafoods, until you have made all the critical decisions of Just What Exactly It Is That You Want… at which point you make your selections and belly up to the enormous grilling station in the middle of the room, handing your bowl over to the man with the spatula.

The beloved at that time was rocking a Cajun vibe, and he had chosen his ingredients carefully to create a kind of ersatz jambalaya grill… complete with plenty of okra for that authentic taste.

I loathe okra (texture issues,) so I had spared it one quick glance, shuddered, and walked on.

Our dishes were cooked, sauced, and plated up - and we headed to our table on feet dancing with anticipation. I took a bite of my Asian fusion dish. 

       *oh, yum!*

He took a huge bite of his faux Cajun… 

       and tears sprang to his eyes.

And I don’t meant metaphorically - No, they were streaming down his face.

He also flushed a bright, deep red…

       and sweat broke out visibly on his brow.

I watched in stunned bewilderment as he started chugging his ice water with one hand, while groping for my glass with the other, ready for a quick switch.

“What on Eaaarth?? Are you OK?????”

“That… okra… was… jalapenos!” he gasped out.

He did finish the rest, just in much more careful bites - and with full awareness of what was about to hit his mouth this time. Nonetheless, it was about a half hour before his hair stopped dripping from the shock of it all.

It made a good story, tho’.

One that went down in the annals as The Okra Mistake.