SG | Stop me if you’ve heard this one: It’s the end of summer, probably 1997. I’m standing in the kitchen of my parents’ house in Montgomery, where my dad is wrapping up his lunch break. There are some fresh jalapeños by the sink, their skin smooth and shiny and deep green, and somehow or another — if only I could remember the conversation that led up to it — my dad has me convinced that I should take a bite of one.