One Week In
When I first arrived on the submarine in my late teens, a would-be shipmate asked me to go get a portable air sample. I didn’t understand what he was asking, and I was even more confused when he handed me a large plastic garbage bag. But I did as I was told and fetched that bag of air. Turned out he was fucking with me, because of course there was a real tool for that — a device that sucked air across a filter for analysis. We all had a good laugh.
Flash forward thirty-five years. After more than five years working from home, I found myself walking back into the office, ending an era of remote work. Not because anyone dragged me — I went willingly, chasing a new leadership opportunity.
But here’s the thing: I’d forgotten how to “office.” I loved starting each day with a motorcycle ride, so I was excited. But just as naïve as I’d been on that submarine.
First day in, I didn’t bring food. Lunch? No plan. At home I just wing it. Fridge, pantry, stove, done. At the office, not so much. You have to plan for that shit. That realization set in as I started remembering “the olden days” of prep the night before, pack in the morning.
I admitted this to my new boss, not looking for him to solve it, just to point out my rookie mistake. But he’d been on-site the whole time and was prepared. He asked if I liked spicy food.
“Of course,” I said. I eat stuff my friends won’t touch — blistered peppers, fiery sauces, all of it. I’d even eaten Thai food in fucking Thailand. Spicy doesn’t scare me. I seek it out.
So he offers me a cup of noodles. Ghost pepper noodles.
At that point, I knew exactly two things:
I was hungry as hell.
He was offering food.
Was this sustenance or hazing? Didn’t matter. I’m Navy, I’m Gen X. I don’t back down, and I sure as hell don’t flinch at noodles.
I ripped it open, cooked it up, and dug in. They were hot, no question, but they hit the spot. But yeah, they were fucking hot. They offered the kind of burn that makes you sweat and grin at the same time.
Halfway through, he says: “Don’t drink the juice.”
I looked him dead in the eye. “I’m drinking the fucking juice.”
Because everybody knows the broth is the best part — the flavor bomb at the end. The salty, spicy finish.
So I drank it. And immediately understood the warning. Ghost pepper broth chased with coffee is… an experience.
But I don’t regret a single sip.
Was he testing me? Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted to share lunch. Either way, if I had to do it again, I’d still drink that fucking juice.
