I wrote about the allure of Tabasco for Fresh magazine. It is a personal essay with a long narrative arc. When all else fails, I reach for Tabasco. It’s my go-to condiment, as comforting to me as a child’s blanket, as dependable as New England’s four seasons, as fierce as the women in my family—my mother, my grandmother, and my many aunts—whose cooking I longed for when I arrived at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachusetts, from India as a young undergraduate in the late ’80s.At school and out of my element, I missed the stews my mother would cook on her outdoor stove under the moonlight, the dishes that teemed with the rich scents and spicy flavors of my native South India. In comparison, the cafeteria food was bland and arrived like clockwork: Pasta on Mondays, ratatouille on Tuesdays, burgers on Wednesdays, pizza on Fridays, and so on. I yearned for the fiery green chilies that flavored the curries back home. I needed some fire and spice—and that bottle of cafeteria mustard was no substitute.