Thought for Food

One Night in Hunan

Have you ever heard of a cook’s condition that is known in the business as “Hunan Hands”?

Neither had I.  That is, until this morning at 3:30, when I, panicked and whimpering with agony, gingerly opened my laptop and Googled “chili burn remedies.”

At 11 pm, I halved and seeded a half-pound of mixed hot chilies.  As I’ve learned to do, I promptly washed my hands with lukewarm water and soap, and then pureed the chilies, and washed my hands again.  I tasted a dab of the puree and 10 minutes later my tongue, lips, and area around my mouth began to burn.  My hands were also burning but the mouth was much worse.  Jane and I had gotten ourselves into this hot-and-spicy pickle before and spent a comical half hour with our mouth submerged in goat’s milk yogurt.

So my friends, who were gathered for a homemade pizza party (prepared by dear Andrea), urged me to cool off with some yogurt.  My mind was already beginning to go — the burning sensation becomes front and center and it’s difficult to think practically about solutions — so I just went with their advice.  Within 10 minutes, my mouth was feeling nearly normal, and while my hands still stung a bit, I thought I was ready for my next chili task: preparing dried aji lima chilies for their 48-hour dunk into 4 liters of tequila.

They were labeled “VERY HOT” but, perhaps because they were were dry, I did not even suspect they could be very dangerous to my skin.  The instructions on the package said to wear gloves OR wash hands immediately after handling.  I did the latter.  It was the worst mistake I have made as a 27-year-old.

The itching and burning commenced about 20 minutes later.  I took 4 Tylenol PM, knowing I would need to be chemically knocked out if I was going to get to sleep.  I washed my face and managed to splash the burning hot chili sensation straight into my left eye, rendering me partially blinded for a few minutes.  It had been a half hour since I touched the chilies; I couldn’t believe their traces could still be spreading.

I said goodnight and lay down.

Five minutes later, I was back up.  The burning, the itching, the pain — I couldn’t stay still.

I dunked my hands in a bowl of yogurt.

Jane and Andrea fashioned me two mitts made from damp washcloths.  They wrapped my yogurt-covered hands with three cubes of ice each, then secured them with rubber bands.  We were very grave — I was very agitated — but looking at the absurd things at the end of my arms, we all cracked up.

Then they put the TV on for me and we agreed I would relax for awhile, wait for the Tylenol PM to kick in, and go to sleep, possibly with the mitts still on.

Fifteen minutes later, my hands started to burn like they never had before.  I frantically tore off the mitts and ran my hands under cold water.

For the next hour, I dipped my hands in bowls of yogurt and then, when the relief wore off and they began to burn again, I dipped them in bowls of ice water.  After awhile I added cider vinegar to the ice water, in the hope that there would be some natural antiseptic effect.

I could barely keep my eyes open.  I tried to watch shows recorded on our DVR — The Daily Show, Colbert Report, Fringe, The Rachel Zoe Project — but everything seemed exceedingly trite.  GODDAMN IT RACHEL ZOE I AM ON THE VERGE OF CUTTING OFF MY HANDS AND YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT “DYING” OVER SOME STUPID DRESS?!!

So I turned the TV off.  I texted a cry of distress to Twitter.

I made myself a bed on the couch, with the ottoman pulled up very close and my four bowls of yogurt and ice water nearby.  I lay on my side and just kept moving my hands from bowl to bowl, periodically adding more ice.

At 3 AM, it got very, very bad.

I started pacing from room to room like a caged, drugged animal.  With 4 Tylenol PM coursing through my body, I was uneasy on my feet.  My eyes were never more than half-mast, my head was heavy.

I considered waking up my roommates and going to the hospital.

But what can they do at the ER? I asked myself.

Then I started thinking about that woman in the New Yorker story who scratched through her own head trying to satiate a persistent itch.  It sounded so reasonable.

Well, I thought, if someone needs to amputate me at both wrists, it should probably be the professionals.

After 30 minutes, I remembered the Internet. That’s when I Googled treatments.  Most of the advice was: “Prevention is the best medicine. Wear gloves.”

YEAH, WELL, FUCK YOU TOO, I thought.

Others suggested milk products and ice.  Okay, done that.  Some said onion.  Couldn’t imagine trying to cut one.  But there were a few glimmers of hope:

Bleach and rubbing with salt.

I stumbled to the laundry room, a crazed woman in an open dressing gown and hands held aloft like a surgeon.  I dumped the bottle in our bathroom sink, diluted with some water, and soaked for 5 … 10 minutes.

Nothing.

I took down our bulk box of Kosher salt.  I rubbed.  I rubbed. I rubbed.

Nothing.

I moaned like a wounded animal.

I gazed at my hands, hands that have served me well for 27 years, and had now turned against me like yellow-bellied traitors.  I felt alienated and angry, but I knew it wasn’t their fault.  They hadn’t chosen to handle the chilies.  Still, they were really pissing me off.

I considered my sharpest knife.

I took two more Tylenol PM.

I paced. I returned to the computer, hoping more advice had materialized.  That’s when I spent 5 minutes laboriously typing out a Twitter message.  Each key stroke was agony for both fingers and brain, but at least it made me forget the burning.

I kicked things.

I looked at the clock: past 4 am.

I wrote another Twitter message.  I had the thought this could be my last words to the world.

I was very woozy.

Verrrry wooooozy…

I thought I might fall to the floor right there, and I would be found in the morning — hopefully still alive and in possession of both hands.

I wrapped my hands in a kitchen towel with two ice packs.

I lay down on my makeshift bed on the couch (for some reason this felt safer than my bedroom).

I waited for whatever would come next — sleep or death, it didn’t seem to matter.

At 7:30 am, I woke up, needing to use the bathroom.  My comforter was cold and wet.

My hands itched.

They still do.

To be honest, you would probably call this feeling burning.  It is highly uncomfortable.

But after last night — when I felt literally as though my hands were submerged in embers — this ain’t nothin’.

I read that one can build a tolerance to Hunan Hands.

Bring it on.