Don't be a Jerk (seasoning) - A love ballad

I wish they made scratch and sniff screens..

The first time I fell in love, it wasn’t with a person—it was with Jamaican jerk seasoning. And like any good love story, it started in the most unexpected of places: Japan.

I was working alongside a Jamaican fella, a guy with a booming laugh, a heart of gold, and a spice cabinet that could make a grown man weep. One day, he caught me seasoning chicken in what I thought was a respectable way. He shook his head, chuckled, and said, "Nah, man. Let me show you how it's really done."

I was not about to compete with someone that hails from the motherland of Jamaica, but I sure as hell was eager to learn.. I put down my spatula, kicked off my grilling shoes, and watched as he pulled out 15 pounds of chicken thighs out of a cooler during a shop cookout. With the precision of an artist, he removed the chicken from the marinade, a blend that smelled like pure magic—warm allspice and nutmeg, a few orange halves, and the unmistakable fire of scotch bonnet. When the chicken hit the scorching hot grill grates, the air filled with a smoky, spicy perfume that had me questioning every meal I had ever eaten.

One bite was all it took. The heat hit first, a slow burn that built into a fiery crescendo. Then came the sweet, earthy warmth of the spices, rounded out by that bright, tangy citrus kiss. It was bold. It was unapologetic. It was a revelation.

From that moment on, jerk seasoning wasn’t just something I used—it was something I respected. And every time I fire up the grill, I hear my old friend’s voice in the back of my mind: "Now dat’s how you cook, my brother."

Now get a bottle of Ya Mon, crack a Red Stripe, and let the good vibes flow!