It took me several years to make the connection between the peppers my father grew in the garden of the house on Palm Avenue, in California, and the plump, yellow-orange bonnet peppers called “ají cachucha” on the sign in the produce section of the market. I put one into my mouth now and taste, as if this is the only way to connect with my dead father, a man who believed in all the gifts of the earth, and he is laughing now as I tear up from the heat in my mouth because I should have known that pleasure and taste come in many forms. This one, though, doesn’t wait to remind you. It burns in your mouth, it glows on your tongue. Not even water can help you now.