The Chili Pepper

My mother kept Tabasco Sauce upon the kitchen table;
one bottle lasted 20 years (the stuff is very stable).
But when into the wide, wide world I sent my taste buds straying,
with peppers hot and sweet and strange they started bravely playing.
I ate 'em smoked and dried and canned, or straight off verdant vine;
I masticated Capsicum long pickled in hard brine. 
Their Scoville units held no meaning to my sated palate;
I added them to ev'rything as if they were mere shallot.
But fascination with these plants soon turned to an addiction,
and I could never be with others without causing friction.
My wife said that an ancho in her gravy was abuse;
and for Scottish bonnets my dear kiddies had no use.
My co-workers complained about the stench around my desk,
which reeked, they said, of something very jalapeno-esque.
Bereft of home, and jobless, to the gutter I soon crashed,
where I lived on nothing but serranos crudely mashed.
I managed, after years of woe, to spurn the chili's power
by turning to craft vinegars -- which are so very sour!
So nowadays I revel in Balsamic or Red Wine.
(Some Apple Cider from the Braggs goes very well with swine.)