From now on, I’m only eating food that has music videos. Just kidding.
I love any kind of pickle: dill, sweet, cornichons, all kinds of kimchee, krauts, pepperocini. You name it, if it’s pickled, I’ll probably eat it. So when I read this, I had to have Kuchela.
I found it easily on Amazon for $7 + shipping. Within a week, my jar arrived. The contents were a muddy, murky green. My kids took one look and gagged. I opened it and they left the room. Kory sniffed and demurred. He says he tried it, but I’m not sure I believe him.
Finn will eat hot. Ella will eat pickle. Between them, they make one Kuchela eater, and that is me.
Which is great, because for once, there is a food in my house that belongs entirely to me and me alone. They scarf the berries before I get to them. They eat the Easter chocolate in the middle of the night, but this jar of Mango Kuchela, it’s mine and mine alone. I don’t even have to hoard it because no one but me will go near it. Mothers, take this as a lesson–cultivate tastes distinct from your family if you want to feed yourself as well as your family.
As of this writing, I have finished half the jar. I eat it on eggs, and roti, and flat bread, and tofu, and curries. It is, as the song says, hotter than hot, blazing hot. It’s full-bodied, mouth-watering, salty, sour, a little sweet, and totally addictive.
The kids and Kory won’t touch it, but it has brought them untold joy, too, because whenever we eat, or even talk about eating, or even describe any food, or daily temperature that is “hot”, they break into The Song. Shoulders shake, booties twitch, and a little bit of hot kuchela madness takes over. The stuff is magic.