hot stuff

In third grade I had a boyfriend for two days. He was four feet tall and had no front teeth. I’ve done worse.

He approached me after school as I struggled to fit a rather large, papier-mâché lady bug into my backpack. The theme that semester was insects. In two weeks, I would wear a green onesie and star as the praying mantis in the school play. Due to an undetected reading problem, which later translated into a simple case of myopia, I fumbled the audition and wasn’t given any speaking lines. Apparently, if you can’t read, you can’t act. As a consolation prize, I landed the role of the praying mantis — a man eating seductress who struts across the stage to the tune of Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman. No speaking, just strutting. It was an invaluable lesson for any young girl in her formative years.

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?” the toothless boy asked.

I gave the lady bug one last shove, snapping one of its six legs in two. The forsaken appendage fell to the ground between us. As the boy reached to retrieve the leg, our eyes met. Even now I give him points for directness.

“Okay,” I said, feigning disinterest. I grabbed the splintered appendage from the toothless boy and ran for the carpool line, my smile stretching from one ear to the next.

I told my mother the big news as soon as I got home. “I have a boyfriend,” I announced. My younger brother, knee-deep in a bag of Milano cookies, did what he does best and ignored me. “I have a boyfriend,” I repeated.

“That’s great,” my mother said. “I made some guacamole; it’s in the fridge.”

I threw my backpack and the defunct appendage to the ground and headed for my room. Guacamole? How tone-deaf. This moment was only the biggest event in my nine years of living. Like any girl on the cusp of tweenhood, I thrust myself onto my bed and gazed at the glow-in dark stars on my cottage-cheese ceiling. I stood on the bed and began to pull at the adhesive, green putty; I had a habit of rearranging the constellations in times of angst.

The phone rang. “Hello,” my mother answered, “yes, she’s here. Just a second.” It was him. It was my boyfriend calling me to ‘chat on the phone.’

My mother handed me the phone, her face painted with a noticeable smirk. I impatiently waited for her to exit my bedroom before placing the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

“Hi, it’s Ian. What are you up to?”

My mind drew a blank. I racked my brain for something, anything, that would sound mildly adult and cool. “Oh, just listening to some albums,” I responded. No one listens to ‘albums’ at nine.

Ian paused. “Do you want to watch Baywatch together?” Even then I knew that Baywatch, with its feast of flesh and high thigh, one-pieces was not to be watched in the company of parents. After ensuring my mother was safely busying herself in the kitchen, I crept towards our den and turned the TV to channel 13. David Hasselhoff’s pecks filled the screen.

“Do you think she’s pretty?” Ian asked as Pamela Anderson charged across the beach, breasts jostling, to rescue a pitiful specimen drowning in the Pacific. My mind was still clouded by David Hasselhoff’s pecks.

“Yeah, I guess so?” I responded one eye glued to Pamela’s breasts and the other to the door my mother might walk through at any moment.

“I think she’s hot,” Ian said.

Up until that juncture, hot was synonymous with temperature and little else. The weather was hot. The soup was hot. Pamela in a fire engine red one piece — not hot. “Yeah, she’s hot,” I said. The phrase did not trip off the tongue. It was novel, foreign and thrilling all the same.

As we watched Pamela and the other adonises fill the screen, we continued to experiment with the word, ping-ponging it back-and-forth for the amusement of the other. I spent the next hour tied to the screen, giggling into the receiver, until the light outside faded and my mom called me to the kitchen for dinner.

Two days later, Ian broke up with me. He had changed his mind and didn’t want a girlfriend. I cried, as is customary, and the remainder of third grade marched-on to an unremarkable beat. But that word, and the baggage it would soon bring, was now ingrained.

Chipotle Chili Truffles

½ cup heavy whipping cream

4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

4 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, finely chopped

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

½ teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon chili powder

¼ cup cocoa powder

In a small, heavy saucepan, bring the heavy cream to a simmer over low heat. While the cream heats, place the chopped chocolate in a medium heat proof bowl. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate and let sit for 2 to 3 minutes.

Add the vanilla, cinnamon, and chili powder to the mixture. Using a whisk, stir the mixture until the chocolate has completely melted. Place the bowl in the refrigerator and chill until solid all the way through — approximately 1 to 2 hours.

Once firmed, use a tablespoon to roll out the chocolate into evenly shaped balls (they may appear rugged at this stage). Rinse your hands with cold water between rolls to avoid a sticky mess. Refrigerate the truffles for 20–30 mins until just set. Once set, re-roll the truffles until smooth and roll in cocoa powder or any coating of your choice. Store the truffles in an airtight container in the refrigerator until ready to serve.