Chris was a propane-truck-driving, karaoke-singing, charcoal-grilling, gregarious party host who was at home tickling his grandkids as he was reading poems over brandy whiskey Vanilla Cokes. He also happened to be my parents’ neighbor.

I’ve been thinking about him lately. It’s early March. Practically spring. The season of resurrection, or renewal, whichever you prefer. And it’s in that spirit I’d like to call upon my departed friend Chris. What I remember most is his inimitable laugh: part Sesame Street’s Ernie, part ’80s hair metal cackle. I loved hearing him laugh, even if it was at my expense. He was also a connoisseur of all things spicy. As someone who grew up in Chili, Wisconsin, he took his passion for peppers as a birthright. The legacy he left me, a bit like this story, comes with a little heat.

One night, more years ago than I care to contemplate, my wife, Adrienne, and I were visiting my parents at their home. Soon, the neighbors – Chris and his wife, Kara — walked over, and our visit became a party. We sat around the dining room table playing cards. Kara had brought over a delicious appetizer: pumpernickel bread slathered with cream cheese and garnished with a sliver of radish and habanero pepper, which Chris and I could not get enough of. It was a melancholy moment, that empty plate, until Chris said, “Not to worry.” He bounded across the street and soon returned with all the necessary ingredients to make another batch. He revealed two orange peppers in the palm of his right hand. Grinning, he passed one to me. We stood at the kitchen counter and sliced the habaneros as thin as we could get them at first, until our latent machismo got the better of us, and then our pieces got thicker. We glanced at each other in a competition to see who would take on the bigger burn. I remember reminding him to wash his hands after we were done lest he rub his eyes and screw up his contact lenses.

”

It turns out that an eyelid isn’t the only place on the body where the skin is thin. I hadn’t washed my hands after handling the habanero either.

ANDREW PATRIE

Eventually, we recreated Kara’s snack, kicked up a bit more — which was Chris’s way — and returned to play cards with everybody else. A few minutes into gameplay, I noticed Chris’s red face and his watery eyes and realized he hadn’t heeded my advice. He hadn’t washed his hands and had proceeded to rub his eyes and now he was in a great deal of discomfort. Laughing, I admonished him with language not suitable for this family publication, essentially the equivalent of “You stupid head,” and then excused myself to go to the bathroom.

When I returned, he was still miserable, and I shook my head, sat down, and looked at my card hand. That’s when my laughter stopped, when I felt some discomfort myself, right in my nether regions. I shifted from side to side in my chair, trying to assuage the feeling, but it only made it worse. Adrienne noticed my wiggling and asked what was wrong. Then there was this horrific dawning, and I bolted from my chair back to the bathroom.

It turns out that an eyelid isn’t the only place on the body where the skin is thin. I hadn’t washed my hands after handling the habanero either, and certainly not before handling myself. Now who was the stupid head? I desperately called Adrienne into the bathroom and showed her what had happened. If she had had her drink with her, it would have been a spit-take moment. I implored her not to tell anyone, and she gave me a “yeah, right” look. By the time I composed myself and returned to the table, it was to a round of applause, cheers, tears, and Chris’s laughter rising above it all. While I had, indeed, taken the “bigger burn,” Chris got the last laugh, and I am grateful for this because I can still hear it.

So exult in spring, the green unfurling and flowering. Eat a pepper now and then (though do remember to wash your hands). And laugh often with dear friends, those living and those remembered still.