Bury Me in Hot Sauce

There is a Medieval legend of the honey mummy: holy men consuming nothing but honey until their excreta and fluids turn to honey, whereupon they die and are sealed in honey-filled stone caskets for a hundred years. Bites of their candied flesh are said to have curative powers, mystically evading definitions of cannibalism.

When I am 75, I will stop eating and drinking anything except hot sauce. After a month, my bodily fluids will become hot sauce. I will poop fiery chili paste like a sambal. The endorphins released with every bowel movement will keep me high as a kite. I will pee siracha sauce squirting like a squeeze bottle. My seminal fluid will be an organic salsa verde. My salivary glands will secrete tabasco. Weeping serrano tears from cayenne eyes, everything I see will have an apocalyptic tint. The interstitial fluid between my cells will run with fermented habanero. Since an all-out hot sauce diet is unsustainable, I will die. Fill a stone coffin with artisan ghost peppers, pureed scotch bonnets, Trinidad scorpions, jalapenos aged in wooden casks, vinegar, salt, lime, onions, and garlic. Place my body inside. Then seal it for 100 years.

When I am excavated, break the seals and display my body in a reverential setting, the center of a new religion: Capsaicin Nation. I will be a hot sauce mummy with the consistency of a blazing full-flavored jerky rated at a mind-bending 16,000,000 Scoville units. Slice off small portions of me for medicinal or culinary use. I will cure colds, and flavor soups and chili. I will have become the rarest health food commodity, sold by the gram at exorbitant prices. Let this be my legacy.

Alternatively, I may opt to become a beer mummy. In that case, at 75 I will start consuming nothing but beer. I will buy like 50 growlers from Hoops Brewing, and spend my last month drunk as a skunk literally pickling myself. After 30 days I will poop black stout and pee malty golden lager with a frothy head and a spicy hop aroma. My eyes will see the world through amber ale. My cellular fluids will be a crushable IPA balanced toward bitterness. On my deathbed, stick a keg tap in my arm and throw a party. When I expire, bury me in a stainless steel vat full of yeast and wort. Close me in there for a century. After that, dispense me in portions to breweries as an exotic fermenting and flavor agent.

I should mummify myself with wine. For a month I will consume nothing but red wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Heavy with alcohol, my bowels will produce a pinot noir with aromas of cherries, berries, and a mousy, barnyard complexity. I will pee Cabernet Sauvignon with high tannins and notes of black currant and flower stem. My veins will flow with a pretentious, ruby-red Tempranillo that tastes like tobacco, white pepper, and vanilla. My lymph nodes will secrete a dark, juicy-plum Malbec with aromatics of oxidized chamomile and real structure. As I give thanks for the opportunity to devote myself to service in this way, I will weep velvety, medium-bodied tears of Merlot with a youthful meniscus. Bury me in a clay pitcher of Grenache, local fruit, and a splash of brandy; I will be a sacred sangria served with ice cubes for a summer Communion, someday after this terrible century is over.

If I decide to mummify myself with coffee, I will go on a four-week coffee-only fast. Afterward my fluids will be cupped in the tasting room at Duluth Coffee Company. My single-origin Colombian pee will reveal a piquant acidity with aromas of coriander, chocolate, and cedar. The bile of my liver will produce a pungent scent of clove and the taste of fresh earth with an alkaline finish. My light-roast cerebral-spinal fluid will smell of browning sugar while leaving astringency on the tongue. Drown me in a vat of cold press. After a century, powder a slice of my flesh into an espresso machine. Serve me with steamed barista-blend oat milk and a pinch of nutmeg, the kind of artful latte that lets you experience God for five fucking minutes.

Realistically, I might become a cannabis mummy. They say it is impossible to die of a cannabis overdose but let me be history’s first. For thirty days I will drink nothing but THC tinctures, and I will eat nothing but pot gummies fried in weed butter, and I will strap on a facemask connected by a tube to a continuously smoking electric bong. Occasionally I will take a break to hotbox joints in a car. After a month I will shit high-grade hashish suitable for vape pens. My green pee will be potent enough to kill a dog. My seminal fluid will be dank de la spank. My sweat glands will produce fine kief crystals on the surface of my skin so I look like Edward in Twilight. My blood will develop into a syrupy majoun. My skunky ear wax will be sought after for dab rigs. When I die, bury me for 100 years in a stone coffin filled with nugs suspended in Delta-9 CBD oil. When you dig me up, you will find my body was stolen 50 years ago by the cartels. I will become the holy grail of stoners worldwide and the cause of wars. My high will be tranquil, heady, and visual.

An index of Jim Richardson’s essays may be found here.

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