In the hills, they call it Bhut Jolokia — the ghost chilli. Old stories say its heat could drive spirits from a house. What the stories rarely mention is the flavour underneath: dried apricot, woodsmoke, a sweetness that arrives before the fire does.
The heat itself is patient. It builds for a full minute, holds, and recedes like a tide — which is exactly why the people who grow it cook with it every day.
Each pod is picked by hand at full ripeness, when the skin turns from embered orange to deep red. A single harvest travels from the hillside to our drying racks within a day — nothing sits, nothing is blended, and every batch can be traced to the village that grew it.