I grew up with no spicy foods, and before you say, who didn’t? I’ll remind you that most cultures, apart from Maine, can put something fiery on the table.

A few years before I was born my maternal grandfather died of a perforated ulcer. In those days everybody thought that ulcers were caused by spicy foods, so my mom and my grandmother never cooked with any spices, not even the non-fiery ones. I wasn’t even allowed mustard on my hot dogs, with the result that when I got to California in my 20s a whole new amazing, brilliant, tasty world opened up.

It was my first trip to a Szechwan restaurant in Berkeley that did it. All those dishes hot enough to blow your head off, but they all had flavors I had never experienced. It was powerful cooking, but it also tasted great, a combination I never knew existed.

That was the night I found a little crinkly red thing, about the size of a pinkie finger, in my Szechwan Eggplant, and said, that looks good! And I ate it. Then I drank all of my beer, and then I drank all the beers of the people sitting next to me. I had eaten, whole, one of the little dried Asian peppers that we’ll talk about later. Szechwan Eggplant is still one of my top 10 dishes.

Not long after that, my friend Geraldine inducted me into the Society of the Galvanized Gullet, a dining club that held a pot-luck every two or three months where all members brought the hottest dishes they could cook. Thing is, there was no hot-for-hot’s-sake; you couldn’t just up-end a bottle of Tabasco into your casserole and call it good. It was with the Gullets that I branched out into other cultures, and after these steamy introductions I began to haunt many of the hundreds of ethnic restaurants in the Bay Area (sixty of which were within walking distance of my house in Oakland).

Thai was of course a big fave, with such complex spicing that different bites from the same dish would burn different parts of your mouth. (Fortunately, Thai cuisine is well-represented in our community at the Thai Smile.) And Hunan as well as Szechwan Chinese dishes: peppers! Garlic! And of course the food of India, the subcontinent that grows almost every spice in the world.

It was as well that I had some practice with Indian spicing, because on my second trip to England we ended up at one of those takeaway curry places that are on every corner, this one in a working-class neighborhood of Newcastle upon Tyne. The big menu on the wall listed the Lamb Vindaloo as the second-hottest thing in the house; sure, I thought, I can handle that! And in the event I actually did handle it, but it remains to this day the hottest dish I ever finished.

Alas, it’s possible to get out of training if you live in a place with few spicy opportunities, and I have to admit that I don’t have the spice tolerances I used to have, so I often make dishes that can adjust the fiery power on a sliding scale. So, for adding some fireworks to your July 4 barbecue, I’ll recommend a dish that can be as hot or as mild as you like. It’s a Dan Dan Mein, or Peanut Noodle, as used to be made at the wonderful Hunan Garden in Oakland, California.

Cook a package of lo mein noodles(or even regular spaghetti) according to the directions, drain, and toss in a large bowl with some peanut oil so they don’t clump as they cool.

In a wok or large skillet, brown ½ pound of ground pork in hot peanut oil, along with a couple whole dried Asian peppers, sometimes called Japanese peppers, though they’re from China. (You can find them in a little plastic bag at Hannaford, next to the fresh peppers.) When the pork is brown, stir in a splash each of soy sauce and rice wine vinegar, a shake of Chinese five-spice, and a tablespoon or so of black bean paste or Hoisin sauce.

Add a can of chicken stock, or two cups of your homemade, and as it simmers start adding natural-style creamy peanut butter by the spoonful, stirring until it reaches the consistency of really good pea soup. Taste for seasoning: add salt or a bit of sugar if necessary, take the peppers out if it’s hot enough, add crushed red pepper flakes if it’s not. As you turn off the fire, add a splash of sesame oil. (Note: this makes a lot of sauce; if there’s too much for the noodles, put some on your grilled meats. Really.)

Chop a bunch of green onions. As the sauce cools, pour it over the noodles and toss with the white parts of the onions. Place in a large serving bowl and scatter the green parts of the onions over the top. This is fine if it’s fairly mild, but it’s better the hotter you make it. After all, the Chinese invented fireworks, too.

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