My mom has an unnerving love for spicy things. Spicy tofu, spicy soup, spicy carrots; as long as it is spicy, she will eat it, guaranteed, because she grew up with peppers and spicy foods.

Furthermore, only the spiciest spicy sauce will do. She goes to exotic places, to the back of supermarkets, for a bit of supposedly the “spiciest” stuff in town. And because she’s eaten so much peppers, she never says anything is hot. Never.

“That’s not spicy at all,” my mom says about three seconds before I choke.

“Don’t worry, it’s completely fine,” my mom chimes in right before I die on the spot.

With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that when my mom says something is spicy, then immediately my brain goes on overload. That was what she did a week ago. Pointing to a bowl of broccoli, she told me to try some.

“Is it spicy?” I asked her instinctively.

“Just a bit,” she said just as I grabbed a bit and prepared to put it in my mouth. I dropped it onto the table.

“Hey, watch it,” my mom said as she picked up the broccoli.

“It was spicy!”

“Just a little; try it!”

Reluctantly I placed the broccoli in my mouth, tongue twisting around. My veins on my neck tightened for what I thought would be a blast of spiciness that would cause me to spit it out so fast it would blow off the second floor and the roof together.

Nothing happened.

I moved my tongue closer to the broccoli, touching it with the tip, bracing myself again. Nothing happened.

I chewed the broccoli and swallowed it, feeling very stupid.

My mom smiled. “See, I don’t always lie. Now try some of this. It’s not spicy at all,” she said, giving me a piece of chicken.

I bit down hard, savoring the flavor.

That was when I blew the roof off the house. Metaphorically. What I really did was spit it out into the trashcan hastily, dump two glasses of water and one glass of milk down my throat, and then pant like a dog for thirty seconds.

“Well, I thought it wasn’t very spicy,” my mom said thoughtfully to herself.