In one’s life, one has tried three times to get used to the hotness of spiciness. The first attempt was during the teenage years when one was deeply interested in Arabic culture, beliefs, and language. One even participated in a Ramadan meal, where the food was so hot that the mind thought, “Since I’m delving into Arabic culture, I must get used to the spiciness.” However, the writer (referring to himself later as “he” because these memories feel distant and disconnected from his current self) wasn’t consistent and didn’t cook much at the time. He merely tried to eat a few seeds of spice each day, hoping to acclimate slowly. But without commitment, consistency, or a strong desire to achieve this goal, the plan quickly fell flat.
The second attempt came during the fifth year of his studies when he bought a bottle of Sriracha sauce. It was both the first and last attempt of that period.
For context: peppers and similar foods contain a component called capsaicin, which binds to TRPV1 receptors in the mouth and skin. These receptors are responsible for detecting heat and physical abrasion. When capsaicin binds to these receptors, it mimics the sensation of physical heat or burning, even though no actual tissue damage occurs. The brain interprets this as pain, triggering a release of endorphins, which can create a mild euphoric effect in some individuals. Over time, with repeated exposure, the receptors become desensitized, making the sensation of spiciness more tolerable.
It’s worth noting that the spiciness of Sichuan cuisine works differently. Sichuan peppercorns contain a compound called hydroxy-alpha-sanshool, which interacts with tactile sensors in the mouth rather than heat receptors. This creates a numbing or tingling sensation, often described as “buzzing” or “electric,” rather than the fiery heat associated with capsaicin. This unique numbing effect, combined with chili heat, is what gives Sichuan cuisine its distinctive flavor profile, commonly referred to as “mala” (麻辣).
This time, however, with a different mindset, one is being consistent. Now, one cooks for oneself—mostly pasta—and consistently adds enough spices to make the food super hot. The aim is to push the boundaries of sensory comfort but not to the point where the food becomes inedible. For the past two or three months, this has been done with fervor, determined to finally adapt to spiciness.
But why this fervor? What’s the purpose? The purposes are as follows:
Expanding the palate:
The mind realized that for those unaccustomed to capsaicin, the sensation can be overwhelming and distracting, preventing one from tasting other flavors. If you’re not used to spicy food (which anyone can get accustomed to with effort and willpower), your dining options become limited. Imagine going to a restaurant known for its spicy cuisine—your choices shrink significantly. Even if you order something spicy, you won’t taste any other nuances in the dish because the heat dominates everything.
Future travel plans:
The writer plans to travel to places like Mexico, Sichuan, and Arabic countries. Getting used to spiciness unlocks countless flavors and dishes that would otherwise be inaccessible. By adapting to spiciness, one can fully enjoy the cuisines of these regions without limitation.
The third and final wave of acclimation was sparked by a conversation with a person from Mexico. The writer regularly attends language exchange meetings to practice Spanish and interacts with the Mexican community. During one of these conversations, the writer asked how to get used to spiciness. A Mexican man recommended starting with specific spices, like Tajín and Valentina. The writer followed this advice, starting with Tajín, then gradually incorporating more spices.
To the writer’s big surprise, the adaptation process was much faster this time. What was once unbearably spicy became manageable within weeks. Now, the writer is progressing further, purchasing increasingly hotter spices and sauces. During a shopping trip, he bought a variety of items to push the limits: habanero sauces, super-hot Sriracha, Sichuan peppercorns, the Crazy Bastard Sauce series (rated five flames), Mr. Naga Indian hot pepper spice, and so much more.
As mentioned earlier, the progression has been rapid. Just a few days ago, the writer bought a burrito from a Mexican restaurant and chose the hottest sauce available. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he had to blow his nose multiple times, but he managed to finish the entire burrito without drinking water during or after the meal. Remarkably, he could taste other flavors despite the heat. He even kept his mouth closed after eating, resisting the instinct to pant for relief. The experience was challenging yet conquerable—perfectly out of the comfort zone.
Perhaps this rapid progress is due not only to consistency and determination but also to the writer’s mindset. A critical voice in his head constantly evaluates the spiciness of his meals, often demanding, “This better not be disappointing,” or, “It’s weak, it’s not spicy enough!” This mental judge creates an expectation for high levels of spiciness, making anything less seem inadequate. This mentality appears to dull the perception of heat, encouraging himself to push past previous limits.
Now that the writer is progressing rapidly, with an arsenal of spices and ingredients ready to be used, he aims to diminish the discomfort of heat entirely. It’s a decisive determination, one that seeks to conquer the burn and render it powerless. This resolution of the will fills the writer with great pride—a well-trained psychological system, relentless in the pursuit of its assigned objective.
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