A Public Service Announcement Regarding Gravitational Shenanigans

Stop! Read this. It has come to our attention that our hot sauce... settles.

Yes. We've seen it, too. The bottle sits there, looking all separated. As if the noble pepper solids and the sprightly vinegar have had a minor tiff and are now refusing to occupy the same space.

Do not panic. Do not write your MP. The sauce is not dead. It is not "pining for the fjords." It is simply... resting.

This behavior, which lesser mortals might call "a flaw," is in fact your guarantee of its glorious purity.

We Have Banished the Gums!

You see, the world is rife with "stabilizers" and "gums" (like the nefarious xanthan). These are frightfully dull, sticky substances employed by culinary cowards to create a uniform, homogenous, and frankly, boring sludge. It's all terribly predictable.

We, on the other hand, do no such thing. We've sent the gums packing. Naff off, gums!

Why? Because your internal bits deserve better. This sauce is so clean it's practically whistling. It’s made from real food, and real food, when left to its own devices, obeys the laws of physics. The hefty, flavor-packed bits are just having a little lie-down.

Your Solemn Duty

A Proclamation Concerning Our Startling Lack of Robots and Witchcraft

It has come to the attention of the Royal Court that other sauce purveyors utilize "factories" run by soulless machines and strange, buzzing noises. We find this behavior cowardly. Our ingredients are kidnapped—affectionately—straight from the soil of local Texas farms. We insist on Texas produce because, frankly, vegetables grown elsewhere tend to be far too polite, and we require peppers with a specific level of unresolved anger. There are no shipping containers involved, mostly because King Ricardo doesn’t know how to park them.

Furthermore, let it be known that we engage in the ancient and highly inefficient art of "Cooking From Scratch." We do not own a conveyor belt, nor do we employ wizards to conjure flavor out of thin air. We cook in small batches using actual cauldrons and stirring spoons, much to the dismay of our accountant, who keeps suggesting we just dilute red paint. We chop, we simmer, and we taste, ensuring that every bottle is personally attended to by a human being who is likely sweating and questioning their life choices.

Finally, regarding the matter of purity: We have strictly banished the use of Xanthan Gum, preservatives, and other unpronounceable powders favored by the treacherous Ware Wolves. If you want a sauce that will survive a nuclear winter, go buy a Twinkie. Our sauce is 100% all-natural vegetation. It separates because physics is real, not because it is broken. We refuse to use chemical stabilizers to force our ingredients to get along; they must resolve their differences in the bottle, like civilized vegetables.

Welcome, traveler, to the Pepper Kingdoms, a land of breathtaking vistas, questionable agricultural practices, and a political climate that can only be described as "aggressively silly." The kingdom is ruled not by one, but by four rival monarchs, each governing their own corner of the realm with a unique brand of eccentricity. Their perpetual squabbling is the engine of the economy and the primary source of entertainment for the peasantry.

The land is fertile, the peppers are potent, and the knights are frequently distracted by shrubberies. It is a world teetering between epic fantasy and a particularly chaotic stage play.

The founding of the Pepper Kingdoms was, like most great historical events, a complete accident. It began with Saint Sebastian Habanero, a friar and amateur apothecary who was famously bad at sailing. While attempting to find a shortcut to the mainland's annual Pickle Festival, he got hopelessly lost and ran his ship aground on an uncharted island. Upon tasting the local flora, he discovered the peppers, which he initially mistook for a type of very angry berry. After recovering from the ensuing three-day-long hiccup fit, he realized he had stumbled upon a land of immense culinary power and decided to stay, having forgotten where he came from anyway.

His son, King Eduardo, was a well-meaning man whose primary skill was looking regal in portraits. He inherited the island and, after his father's passing, settled it by building a few keeps and cities wherever seemed convenient. King Eduardo had four children—Ricardo, Julio, Victor, and Anna—who argued constantly. Upon his tragic death (he slipped on a strategically discarded banana peel during a joust), the kingdom was divided amongst the four of them, less as a planned inheritance and more as a desperate attempt to get them to stop bickering over who got the last slice of cake. Thus, the four great kingdoms were born.