Last night I made it clear to Brainiac that I had no intention of cooking dinner. None whatsoever. And I didn't want take-out, either, because take-out still means that someone has to clear-up and deal with leftovers and possibly even wash dishes and in our house that someone is almost always me. Since I had spent the day with Pouty McPouterson and Whiny McWhinerson (otherwise known as the Boy Wonder and Entropy Girl, respectively) I wanted nothing more than to sit in a nice air-conditioned booth with a magically refilling diet coke and I would gladly pay virtually any amount for the privilege of not cleaning up. That's how much I needed to relax and what we ate wasn't nearly as important as where we ate it.

No relaxing was to be had, but it was all my fault.

Early in the meal, I offered Entropy Girl what I thought was a piece of bell pepper from the pizza. She loves bell pepper. But she doesn't love jalapeño, which is what I actually gave her.

You can imagine the happiness that ensued. Entropy Girl pawed frantically at her mouth, trying to get the hot out. She refused her sippy and our entreaties to eat some bread and the tears...the tears they were copious. But I was confused....I couldn't imagine where she got a hot pepper, until at least I picked up and tasted the remains of the bell that she spit out.

It was the hottest jalapeño I've had in a while - a fresh one, which are always hotter than jarred. And thickly cut, with seeds and ribs removed it looked for all the world like a sweet bell.

Oh, the guilt.