I have a problem.
One of a culinary nature, an addiction that isn't nearly as bad as most vices in this culture. After all, what's the problem with sprinkling a little lurid red dust across a plate?
I have a smoked paprika problem.
I do. I love it. (Why don't you marry it? Pee Wee Herman might say. And really, I say, I just might.) I want to pinch my fingers around a tiny spot of vivid red-orange powder and dance it into eggs, onto rice, into soups, onto roasted pork. My baked kale chips have an extra surprise: smoked paprika. My roasted tofu glows red. My roasted vegetables have a smoky glow instead of a burnt char. All of this thanks to smoked paprika.
Stop me before I put some in a dessert. Actually, that might not be a bad idea.