“What is this?”
“Your future inheritance.”
“It looks rotten.”
“Wash your hands.”
Luke smelled one pepper.
“Did you pay for these?”
“Five dollars.”
“All?”
“Yes.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“Because apparently this family raised two children and only one understands business.”
Luke looked at Sarah.
“Can I call child services?”
“You’re seventeen.”
“So?”
“Wash peppers.”
He did.
By nine, two hundred pounds were cleaned.
Clara separated peppers into categories.
Good.
Trim.
Discard.
She cut away bruises.
Removed stems and seeds from some.
Left seeds in hot peppers.
Recorded everything.
At eleven, Sarah asked:
“Why are you weighing waste?”
“So I know yield.”
“For one experiment?”
“If it works, I need to know.”
That sentence became Clara’s philosophy.
If it works, I need to know.
The first batch was terrible.
Not inedible.
Worse.
Forgettable.
Clara roasted peppers beneath the broiler because the smokehouse had not been cleaned.
She added cider vinegar.
Onion.
Garlic.
Jalapeños.
Molasses.
Salt.
Cooked.
Blended.
Tasted.
Sarah tasted.
Luke tasted.
Nobody spoke.
Luke finally said:
“It tastes like barbecue sauce that went to college.”
Clara glared.
“That means nothing.”
“It means it has ideas.”
Sarah covered a smile.
Clara tasted again.
Too sweet.
Not enough smoke.
Vinegar sharpness disconnected from the pepper.
Her father’s sauce had tasted integrated.
This tasted assembled.
She poured the batch into containers.
Not bottles.
She would not pretend.
Batch 1: failure.
She wrote it down.
Luke stared over her shoulder.
“You actually wrote failure?”
“Yes.”
“That feels aggressive.”
“It’s accurate.”
Batch two was better.
She roasted peppers over pecan wood outside.
Too much smoke.
Luke coughed while tasting.
“Did you liquefy a campfire?”
Clara ignored him.
Batch 3.
Less smoke.
More garlic.
Wrong.
Batch 4.
No molasses.
Too acidic.
Batch 5.
A little sorghum instead.
Interesting.
Sarah took another spoonful.
“This is closer.”
Clara nodded.