The Devil is a Lie AND He Wears Cardamom
Weird things happen at 3 a.m., when I’m still half-asleep and dragging myself through the kitchen—reaching for that percolator of coffee and asking questions I have no business asking… especially to that heifer, Alexa.
I should’ve known better than to ask her how I could gussy up my coffee this morning. That one innocent question brought back a memory I’d tried to forget—like the time I bit into what I now believe was a mystery critter straight from the devil’s spice rack, dressed up as a spice pod.
Alexa started offering up the basics—cinnamon, pumpkin spice, ginger, vanilla. I’ve done all that. Then she threw me a monkey wrench: cardamom.
I asked her what it tastes like, and I don’t remember exactly what she said—but right about the time she got to going good, I suwannee the Holy Ghost started tapping on my noggin with a memory. A warning, really.
Holy Spirit: “Baby girl. We’ve been through this. Don’t get too excited about cardamom now—you spit that thing out like it was the devil’s breath mint, remember?”
Me: “Now hold on—what?”
Holy Spirit: “Cardamom. Hacked it up like a fur ball. Three years ago. Cute outdoor patio. I was there.”
And suddenly, I was back at that little Mediterranean place a few towns over—the cute one downtown with the outdoor seating where you could have lunch and watch folks come in and out of the courthouse.
I’d ordered something I couldn’t pronounce, on the recommendation of my sweet friend Lara. It smelled divine. And as crazy as it sounds, it was the rice that suckered me in the most.
Lord, that basmati came out gorgeous. Golden yellow, seasoned to the nines, and fluffy like Mama’s 14 bed pillows—only for looks, not for layin’. You know the ones… stacked halfway to the foot of the bed, then ceremoniously removed every single night—just so you can sleep on that one little sad pillow that’s left—flat as a flitter and been there since the Reagan era.
Don’t let the simplicity fool you. That little HIDDEN pod will roll up on your taste buds like you dented its car and didn’t leave a note.
I should’ve known right then it was too good to be true.
First bite: hallelujah.
Second bite: revival.
Third bite: the unholy trinity—betrayal, ambush, and tongue trauma.
I crunched down on something hidden—a dark, round…pebble? seed? demon? I don’t know what, but a plume of floral pepper-perfume exploded in my sinus cavity like somebody shoved a wallflower in my brain and cranked it to ‘funeral home’. My whole nervous system was hollerin’ NO. I couldn’t chew it. I couldn’t swallow it. So I spit it into the street like I was fleeing a spiritual attack. Dignity died on the sidewalk that day, God rest her soul.
So back to what was supposed to be just another morning—and here comes that same word: cardamom—sweet-talking my thoughts and flirting with my coffee like it’s changed.
And listen, if putting it in my cup isn’t the culinary equivalent of inviting your ex to dinner and thinking, “Maybe he’s different now,” I don’t know what is.
He ain’t different. He’s cardamom. And he sashayed across my tongue like he said something smart about my mama.
I’ve been bit by that dog, and I ain’t going back. I’m hard-headed, but I ain’t stupid.
So I did what Google Queens do... I searched “cardamom rice” just to be sure—and there it was, plain as day: the very pod that broke my trust. Some folks say it’s exotic and complex. I say it’s a spice diva with a mean streak. And because I learn things the hard way, I carry this truth with me now:
I trusted the rice. Then I met cardamom. Now I ask a lot of questions.
Questions like:
“Do y’all leave whole spices in the rice?”
“Is anything in here shaped like a BB pellet, a roofing nail, or a dried grape with a grudge?”
“Are y’all trying to start something, or is this just lunch?”
And for the record, no ma’am, no ham, no turkey—cardamom is not invited into my coffee. Not today, Miss Shirley.
So all I really needed was: a spoon, a splash of creamer, and good goose sense Granny always talked about—the kind that lets you say, “Fancy ain’t always better. Sometimes it’s just fluff that gets in the way.”
And the Lord and I have an understanding: He’ll nudge me when I’m about to repeat a mistake, and I’ll think twice before I let curiosity override common sense.
If you ever see me on a patio again, just know—I’m still out here asking better questions and examining mystery morsels carefully. That’s what growth looks like. Sometimes sanctification is about sin. Other times, it’s about cardamom. Either way, I’m gonna be in the seat closest to the street...just in case.
