They offer me a jalapeño and laugh little hispanic laughs. So I look them dead in the eye and tell them that there are places in Australia where the sun beats down on the sand unending. Places where nothing human has cast a shadow for one hundred thousand years. Places that know only the constant pounding fist of burning, nuclear fury that is the heatsong of our mother star.
I tell them that it is in these places that the Australian Chilli Pepper grows. That each one stands as the concentration of ten-millennia of inferno undaunted. I tell them that the moment it touches your tongue you understand, fully, the fury of gods. That when you close your mouth you taste extinction. That when you start to chew you know what it is to be antimatter kissing reality. That when you swallow you see first the stars, then the abyss, then the divine.
They laugh no longer as I finish savouring their pepper and ask how little their gods must be, if this can summon their touch.