They can be so sweet, flavorful and delicious. Some are hot and some are not.

Peppers are among my favorite edibles. You can go wild with peppers: chop and chomp; stuff and bake; slice and sauté; batter and fry; oh me, oh my.

I enjoy the flavor of peppers, but sometimes I also desire that kick of capsaicin. That's the chemical that puts the heat in many peppers. Some peppers have none; some have beaucoup. Beaucoup means a lot, and a lot can be good.

Growing up in an Irish-German clan in the Midwest, I knew of only that mild but yummy bell pepper, until I joined the U.S. Marine Corps. I have nothing against bell peppers, mind you. Contrariwise, I'll take a tasty stuffed bell pepper any day of the week and devour it with delight. Chili rellenos can be mild, too, and I'll destroy a plate of chili rellenos in mere minutes.

My introduction to peppery heat came within my first months in the Marine Corps, when I tasted my first pepper-induced fire in Mexico. Later that year, the Corps sent me on an all expenses-paid trip to beautiful Vietnam. My Marine instructors had taught me all about fighting and surviving in a combat zone, but they forgot to warn me about Southeast Asian chili peppers. I didn't know I'd get into a firefight in my mouth at a Vietnamese noodle stand!

By 1968, while Richard Nixon was saying "Sock it to me!" on television's "Laugh In," I was mimicking him to the Vietnamese vendor who used all those fiery peppers, pepper sauce and pepper oil in her stir-fry dishes. Nuoc mam sauce? Chili-garlic sauce? Thai chilies? Sock it to me!

Those chilies in Asia – not to mention those peppers over yonder in Europe – are not native to those continents. Peppers first appeared in the Americas, where the Spanish took a liking to their wonderfulness and introduced them elsewhere, which became everywhere. 

Peppers generally fall into one of three groups: bell peppers, sweet peppers and hot peppers. Bells contain no capsaicin. Sweet peppers have only trace amounts, but their sweet goodness makes up for any lack of spiciness, in my opinion. Hot peppers, such as all of those crazy-good chili peppers, possess varying degrees of hotness to go along with their crazy goodness. Pleasantly hot or not, I eat peppers quite a lot.

I do have my limits on the heat, though. Just because I'm goofy about peppers doesn't mean I'm flat-out goofy. If I think my tongue is going to fall off and my eyes pop out and the top of my head explode 300 meters into the sky, I'll be careful. I want to stay away from a pepper that might exceed my tolerance level.

Wilbur Scoville helped us know how to stay within our tolerance levels. The chemist, in 1912, invented a heat scale for measuring the hotness of peppers. The entire pepper-eating world heard about his genius and adopted the Scoville Heat Unit.

Jalapeno peppers can kick out 2,500 to 8,000 Scoville units, or SHUs. We can handle that, right? Everybody loves nachos with jalapenos! How about jalapeno poppers? And remember last summer, when Hardee's and Carl's Jr. made those scrumptious, cheesy, southwestern patty melts with jalapenos? Holy hotness, they were delicious!

The ghost pepper is insanely hot. I'm afraid I must pass if you offer me ghost-pepper chow. It claims the title of hottest in the world. The ghost pepper – it's from India and also is known as the naga jolokia – can light up your life, or snuff it out, with a million SHUs. That's not hot; that's hellishly incendiary! 

Incidentally, pure capsaicin measures 16 million SHUs. Hot stuff.

Have you ever eaten a pepper-based dish, but you picked out the peppers and put them to the side – maybe placed them on a separate dish, knowing you should eat them only if capture by the KGB were eminent, and you must die? I've performed that little ritual at Mandarin Garden many times, when I eat the kung pao shrimp. I always order the kung pao shrimp. You know why I order it. Don't act as if you don't. You know why. Because it's so perfectly hot and so damn delicious that I want to sing and shout a special Marine Corps cadence, or chant, all about the peppery heat and spectacular flavor of Mandarin Garden's kung pao shrimp. I'm crazy about Mandarin's kung pao.

I haven't eaten many of those dried, fiery chilies like you get in the kung pao, and I've never eaten a ghost pepper – probably never will. Plenty of other peppers, however, suit my palete just fine. Right now, I'm working my way through a big pile of sweet peppers that I bought on sale this past week. I've been consuming them with great joy every day. Sure, they're not really hot, but my Creole seasoning and Sriracha sauce and Louisiana hot sauce can take care of that in two shakes. Make that 22 shakes – 11 shakes of the Creole seasoning and 11 shakes of hot sauce.

Mmmm, peppers. Capsaicin infused or not, I guess I'm hot for peppers.

Whoever invented cooking in hot oil was a genius – and a culinary godsend.

Talk about good grub. Give me your tired chicken legs, your poor catfish fillets, your huddled masses of hush puppies. Then watch, as I carefully slide them into my pot of 385-degree canola oil. And don't say it's bad for me. Damn the cholesterol! Full fry ahead!

I've been eating fried deliciousness since my grandma pumped saturated fat into my arteries with scrumptious fried rabbit and lip-smacking-good fried quail. Grandpa and I would bring her game and fish from field and stream, and Grandma would work her wonders with lard or shortening or – brace yourself for this one from the holy gods of goodness – bacon grease. Grandma, oh my dear grandmother, why didn't you cook for me with the more healthful peanut oil or the sesame oil? That's OK, Grandma. I'll get over it.

You can deep fry a lot of things. Just coat them or batter them and let 'em fry. And you can fry chicken wings naked, then toss them with hot sauce, and you've got those famous things called hot wings. But leave it to Paula Deen to submerge just about anything into some hot oil. Food Network Humor lists the following as Deen's top seven crazy fried foods: deep-fried mac and cheese, deep-fried stuffing on a stick, deep-fried lasagna, deep-fried bagel sandwich, deep-fried chocolate pound cake, ultimate fantasy deep-fried cheesecake, and an only-Paula-could-do-it dish – fried butter balls. That woman is the queen of fried foods, y'all!

I'm allowed to batter and fry some of my edibles, even though I'm on a wheat-free diet. That's because I use rice flour, sweet rice flour or another wheat-free flour for making my batter or fry coating. Of course, I steer clear of the Armour lard and Crisco shortening. I stick to my trusty canola oil. And I try to limit my fried-food intake, but I'll never stop completely – never, I tell you. I must fry, and I must eat it.       

People have been frying good stuff in oil for thousands of years, I hear tell. Why break with tradition? Yet, some people out there would have us stop right now, immediately, this very instant.

Close your eyes and picture a platter of crispy, juicy, tasty, southern fried chicken. See it? Taste it? Now, tell me if this sounds like any of your friends: "Oh, it's so greasy, and your cardiologist will scold you just for looking at it." No way! Those friends know damn well that that fried chicken is so delicious they'd howl in delight with the very first bite!

By the way, your fried-in-oil eats will not be greasy if your oil is hot enough. On the other hand, if it's too hot, you'll burn those yummy pieces of goodness. But if your hot oil is just right, you'll end up with heaven on a plate. Frying at 375 degrees is best. Get your oil to 385, and when you put your cool food into the oil, the temperature will drop to 375. When it's golden brown on the outside and done inside, remove it from the oil and let it drain on a rack. After it cools down a bit, ignore your friends' health warnings and chow down.

If you don't like the kitchen mess that can come with frying, or if you're simply a lousy fry cook, grab the car keys and head for your favorite heavenly palace of deep-fried joy. It might be a fast-food joint like Popeyes Louisiana Kitchen or Captain D's Seafood Kitchen. I wonder if their kitchens are a mess after all that frying.

Your favorite palace of deep-fry might be a traditional sit-down restaurant. If you're ever in New Orleans, remember the name Maspero, and you have two such palaces to go to for fried delights. Café Maspero on Decatur Street offers a killer fried-seafood plate with oysters, shrimp, catfish and calamari, topped off with french fries. Love it! And Pierre Maspero's on Chartres Street has a similar offering listed on its menu as Pierre Maspero's Fried Seafood Platter; go for it and enjoy the crawfish, catfish, shrimp, french fries and hush puppies. Those two establishments and many more in New Orleans can also feed you my favorite po'boys – deep-fried oysters or deep-fried shrimp, sandwiched inside that pleasing and so gratifying New Orleans French bread.

Yow! Let me wipe the drool from my mouth. You know, I'd rather be wiping away hot chicken juices and savory cookin' oil.

Where's my car keys?

"I hear the train a comin'. It's rollin' round the bend." 
 
Thank you, Johnny Cash. I'll take it from here.

Attention, Gateway City. I'm ready to roll. I'm all set to ride those rails. I got my
St. Louis rail pass this week.

That means I can ride free on Metrolink, which is the St. Louis metro, the train, the tram, the municipal rail system similar to the ones I rode in Tokyo and Paris.

To get my precious pass that allows me to ride the metro for free, I had to prove that I was of a certain age. I provided the proof. That is all I have to say about age. Now, about trains.

I love trains. I rode my first train all by myself when I was about 12, and I traveled all the way up to Chicago. My parents had driven me to Litchfield – that's in Illinois, a little east and north of St. Louis – where I hopped aboard the train. My childhood best buddy, John Kolb, and his parents picked me up at the train station in Chitown. 

Clack, clack. Clack, clack. Clack, clack. "Arriving Chicago Union Station!" Clack, clack. Clack, clack. Chshhhhhhhhhhh! Screeeeech. Chshhhhhhhhhhh. Stop. And that was it. I was hooked on rails.

I like city trains best. I'm talking about metropolitan trains, subways, elevated railways, for example. Before moving here to the St. Louis area 2½ years ago, I had fun riding the rails of Tokyo for a few years. Tokyo is home to so many interesting destinations, and I could get to most of them by riding what surely is the best public railway system in the world. As good as it is, and as easy as it is to use for most people, I still managed to get lost more than once.

I carried my little "Instant Japanese" book and my train map, and Tokyoites were always helpful, even though my pitiful command of the Japanese language was, well, absolutely pitiful. Still, I managed to transfer to a wrong train or get flat-out lost two or three or seven times. That's not so awful over a period of more than three years. I was never really lost, anyway. I was always somewhere in the greater Tokyo area. Taking the wrong train and heading in the wrong direction and ending up in God knows where could be fun. It could be an opportunity. It gave me the chance to stop, regroup my mixed-up
thoughts, ask for help, communicate with locals, figure out new directions, and then eat some good Japanese chow in another new restaurant – I mean, new to me – before getting onto the proper train.

I used to purposely get lost in Paris. Maybe lost is not the correct word. I would get off the Metro at a stop where I'd never gotten off before. Then I would walk around, seeing what there was to see and looking at the menus posted near each restaurant front door. My French was better than my Japanese. Even though I could not carry on a fluent conversation with a Parisian, my vocabulary was extensive enough for me to be understood. The important thing: I could read any French menu, so I had it made. I had Metro tickets, an adventurous spirit and an ability to read the carte du jour. I just had to be careful that I not drink too much wine with my meal, for I might fall asleep on the Metro and wake up at the end of the line, an hour from home. Did I happen to mention that I did that once – or maybe twice? Or was it three times?

If you want to make some Parisians fussy, drag a bulky, scratchy, fresh Christmas tree onto the Metro train. Yes, it was Christmastime, and for some reason I was stupid enough to buy a tree near Metro-stop Convention, way down in the southern end of the Paris 15th arrondissement and had to get it all the way up to Metro-stop Kleber in the middle of the 16th arrondissement. I could see cartoon-like thought balloons above the Metro riders' heads, each one filled in with something like: "That ignorant American!
Does he know where he can shove that tree?!" For some reason, their thoughts were in English. 

I've always wondered, incidentally, why the French created a long word like arrondissement, instead of something short like district or ward. It's so much easier to say 15th district or 16th ward. However, that has nothing to do with the Metro and all the other good things about Paris. Forget I brought it up.

The important thing now is getting out and seeing more of St. Louis. I'm sure that one of my favorite Metrolink stops will be Busch Stadium, home of my beloved Cardinals. I'll probably get off the Metrolink a lot at Forest Park, too, where I can visit the St. Louis Zoo or take in the St. Louis Art Museum or chow down on some fish and chips at the Boat House. And if I have to pick you up at St. Louis Lambert International Airport? You better pack light, baby; we'll be riding the Metro.

I was told that the cost to replace a Metrolink pass is $5. I don't want to spend that five bucks, because my card is brand-spankin' new. I just wish they could change the photo on mine. I look so – ummmm, let's see – of a certain age.

Aw, I guess I should be happy that I'm getting carded again.

I love catching and eating fish. These are my bullheads Asian style. Bullheads are small catfish, and these two were fished out of Deep Creek in the San Bernardino Mountains.

My mother used to say that visitors are a lot like fish. After a couple of days, they start to stink.

To me, fish smell good and taste good. They're fighters, too. I often wonder what I enjoy more – a California trout at the end of my fly-fishing line or an Illinois bluegill on my dinner plate. Tough choice.

Catching a  wild rainbow or brownie or a red-banded trout in a San Bernardino Mountain stream is just about my favorite pastime. I also enjoy catching big bass in Lake Arrowhead and little bullheads in Silver Creek. 

Many anglers preach about the catch-and-release philosophy. They want us all to let our fish go, return them to the water, let them live to be caught another day.

Listen, y'all, you can save your breath. I'm going to keep most of my fish. I'm going to take them home, knock 'em upside the head, clean 'em, dress 'em, cook 'em and eat 'em. They taste good; they're good for me; and my doctor, my aging body and my arteries will be proud of me for consuming all of those omega-3 fatty acids and other nutrients. (Do take heart, release lovers, in the fact that I do free plenty of my bass and some of those
wild trout.)

Here in North America, some of us catch and eat an occasional carp, but most people on our continent look on carp as bottom-feeding trash fish and too bony to eat anyway. Those folks never tasted my grandmother's crispy-fried carp with her homemade tarter sauce. 

My mom, who is 95, still remembers when she was about 12, fishing Silver Creek with my grandfather, and she landed a huge carp. She pulled the big fish onto the creek bank, where it started flopping all over the place. Mom started yelling and asking what she should do, and my grandfather yelled back: "Sit on it!" She plopped her butt on top of that monster carp and didn't move until her dad came over and took charge of the 10 pounds of dinner. Nothing wrong with carp.

In Europe, the carp gets more respect. In England, it's considered a game fish and the prized object of popular carp tournaments. And in Asia, it rates great admiration and appreciation. The Chinese fry it and cover it with delicious sauce, and the Japanese have a professional baseball team named after it – the Hiroshima Toyo Carp.

So, take your carp and eat it. I also recommend eating trout, salmon, crappie, catfish, cod, flounder, redfish, snapper and many more of those delightful and healthful poissons.

I like to cook fish, because fish cooks up quickly. Short cooking times are nice for me because of the marked deficit in the pay-attention area of my brain. One must be careful not to overcook fish, so keep an eye on it. Moist fish is good; overcooked fish is not good. Not-good fish sucks.

Spring arrived officially last month, but climate authorities forgot to tell winter, which has continued to stick around. Thus, the trees have remained mostly bare, and the fish have stayed rather uncooperative for anglers. I trust that will change this week or next. My heart, stomach and taste buds yearn for more fresh-caught fish.

Dont' let my ugly mug distract you from admiring that nice hunk of gulost Norwegian cheese I'm holding a couple of days ago in the dairy aisle at Global Foods in St. Louis.

First, let's clear the air about cutting the cheese.

A cheese slicer cuts the cheese nicely, whether it's the flat-metal variety or the wire type, although the flat-metal slicers can foul up a hunk of semi-soft cheese. The wire kind or even a butter knife can handle semi-soft cheese, but I usually cut the cheese with something like a steak knife.

Whether or not a cheese slicer can cut it doesn't matter, really. How you cut the cheese is not so imperative. Eating the cheese is the important thing. That's the good part.

I've been a connoisseur of good cheese since I was a kid, when my mother would serve me tomato soup accompanied by Ritz crackers dressed up with Kraft pimento cheese spread. That crazy cheese was sold in little glass jars with pry-off, pop-off lids. Does Kraft still make that stuff? If not, it should!

Sometimes my mom prepared me soup along with a grilled cheese sandwich, made with Kraft American cheese. That was so delicious, more than delicious, but my mother's father – that would be my German-American grandfather – enjoyed eating the most stinky cheese I've ever smelled. That beloved man loved limburger cheese. I hated it. Avoid limburger cheese; that's my advice.

Most other cheeses? Go for it. Chow down, cheese fans. Of course, I realize that many people out there will tell you to stay away from cheese, or at least eat it in moderation, because they think dairy fat is going to put you six feet under. Yet, others will tell you that dairy fat can be good for you. Who do you believe?

According to Men's Health magazine online in 2010, cheese is good for you. It listed full-fat cheese among it's nine best foods for weight loss. "This dairy product is an excellent source of casein protein – one of the best muscle-building nutrients you can eat," wrote David Zinczenko, with Matt Goulding. Along with milk, iced coffee, grapefruit, apples, eggs, beans and salmon, the boys also included pork chops. Pork chops! That's my kind of list. Zinczenko and Goulding must know what they're talking about. Pass the cheese, please, and don't hog the chops.

My ultimate cheese fantasies were fulfilled when I lived in Paris. The French produce some fantastic, incredible, superb cheeses. No, better than that. I'd say magical. Hell no. Mythical! That's it! When I die, I want to be sitting along the Seine in Paris, with a bottle of Côte de Provence, a fresh-baked baguette and a hunk of brie. Let me know if you see the old grim reaper heading my way, and I'll book my flight to the City of Light.

Maybe I'm going overboard here with my cheesy spiel on fromage. My friends do say I think about food too much and probably eat too much dairy fat. Yes, I do drink a lot of chocolate malted Ovaltine and consume great quantities of chocolate-chip ice cream, and I gobble down cheese every day. I ate a gouda omelet this morning, and I've got my eye on some cheddar for the evening dinner menu.

It's hard, however, to go easy on the cheese when you live with a Norwegian. Those Vikings make some good cheese too. Ost, or cheese, is a culinary standout in Scandinavian cuisine, so those folks are always buying and eating cheese. Just look inside my refrigerator. You'll find Norwegian ost, Danish ost, Dutch kaas, French
fromage and American cheese. Just two days ago, at two markets in St. Louis, me wife picked up a half-dozen imported cheeses, including Norwegian goat cheese and some Norwegian semi-soft cow cheese. Those went into the cheese bin with the many other packages of  cheese – sliced, grated, blocks and wedges. So, you see? I have no choice. I must eat cheese.

It won't be long, and before you know it, lunchtime will be here. I could fix a healthful salad with grated or shredded cheese on it. Or little, diced, cheese chunks mixed in it. Ham and cheese on a gluten-free, wheat-free bun sounds good, too, yes? Hey, listen to this: some nutritious corn chips, jalapeno peppers, diced tomato, chopped onion and avocado chunks, all covered in hot, melty, oozing cheese. Hot damn! Gotta go!

I've got to go chop some veggies and cut the cheese.