Look, I was trying to be domestic. I had gloves. I had jars. I had a playlist called “Hot Girl Homesteading.” I was ready.
I spent an hour slicing jalapeños like some Pinterest-certified pioneer woman, tossing them into brine like I knew what the hell I was doing. I felt unstoppable. I was preserving things—a concept foreign to me emotionally, but I digress.
Now, I did wear gloves. But apparently jalapeño oils are like red flags in dating—they cling long after you think you’ve scrubbed them off. I took the gloves off. I washed my hands. Twice.
Then I showered.
About two minutes in, I noticed a slight warmth. A tickle, if you will. By minute four, I was gripping the shower wall like I’d just been tased by karma herself. Every inch of my body that could react—did. My skin was a war zone. My nether regions? Ground Zero.
I screamed. My neighbor screamed back. I considered filing a police report on my own genitals.
I staggered out, dripping, weeping, and Googled “capsaicin bath bomb damage control.” Spoiler: milk baths are not nearly as sexy as they sound when you’re crying and crouched in one.
Harper came down with oat milk and ice packs. She didn’t ask questions. She just looked at me—soaked, pink, vibrating with pain—and said, “Sienna. Babe. No more preserving things.”
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