The Sriracha Life

(Never Not the Sriracha)

I was introduced to spicy foods at a young age. My mother, from an Indonesian background, could not go through a meal without incorporating some sort of spice. She would cook fried rice with intensely hot jalapenos, or saute beef and onions with Sambal Ulek sauce. It was the spiciest sauce I had ever tasted, and especially at age eight, my young taste buds could not handle its flaming spirit. My mom, being the caring mother that she was, would make a slightly less spicy version of dinner for me first, and then she would add hotter peppers for herself. I didn't hate spicy food, but I just couldn't compare to my mom's standards.

One day, I approached the kitchen cabinet and rummaged through all the condiments, ready to try something new with my food. The sriracha sauce bottle stood there, glorious even in all its loneliness. I pulled the cap up, squeezed the sauce gently onto my rice and within the first mouthful, I knew. I had found the "perfect-amount-of-spicy sauce"!

You've probably seen it in Asian restaurants. Its vibrant green cap and fiery red body are no stranger to me. They are my very, very dear friends. Also sold in many grocery stores, the sriracha sauce is a popular, addictive chili sauce that can make any dish infinitely better. I promise you.

When my mom makes fried rice, or any dish for that matter, I grab the sriracha sauce, squirt some onto my plate, and indulge myself in the ultimate mouth-watering experience. I even bond with my brother over it, although, I think he loves it a little too much. Without the sauce, we both agree our food remains a little less flavorful, and a little more lonesome.

A dish my mom recently concocted this past winter: Sauteed beef and onions, with provolone cheese, on a warmed, crispy piece of pita bread. Don't forget the sriracha!

This past summer I was at the Super 88 supermarket in Boston. There was so much sauce - I felt compelled to take a picture.