To borrow (and butcher) a phrase from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: A snow pea by any other name would taste as sweet.
But what happens when a snow pea just isn’t a snow pea?
Before you call the office to let the newsroom know I’ve lost my marbles, let me explain.
I’m partial to a snack of the grazing variety — and a big ol’ bag of snow peas from the local supermarket fits the bill better than most delicacies.
Especially when said bag of snow peas was meant to be used among the weekly dinners, but never made the cut — so I was doing the bottom line a favour by repurposing it as daily fuel.
Having been purchased via click and collect a number of days earlier though, the quality of the peas began to deteriorate the further I dove into the bag across the day.
Some carried slight scarring from travel. Others had begun to shrivel and shrink.
But mostly, they were of a high enough standard to keep crunching along.
That was until, distracted by what I was doing, I reached into the bag and nearly crunched on a juicy green chilli.
I don’t do well with anything spicy.
Lemon pepper is as high as I ever might reach on the Nando’s spice scale.
So the stakes were high when I almost bit into that snow pea in disguise.
It would have completely ruined the rest of my day.
Further investigation of the bag — and some taste-testing by fellow members of the office — uncovered three green chillies in total, and for those playing along at home — they were HOT.
I’m not sure how they made their escape from the chilli box and found their way into my bag of snow peas, but I do know that next time I procure a selection of green goods I’ll be checking them extra closely.
Because a green chilli by any other name would certainty taste as searingly hot.
Tyler Maher is the editor of the News.