Wiener dog, devil sauce, absolute chaos

Sure, Lincoln County may not lack events from spring through fall, but once winter rolls in, the cheer and excitement seem to hibernate alongside the local squirrels. So this year, your intrepid editor packed up Winnie the Wiener Dog and her Air Force boyfriend for a chilly, thrilling New Year’s Eve adventure in Leavenworth.

Our first day in town offered a curious spectacle: Leavenworth without snow. Children slid down barely frosted grassy hills on sleds, squealing with a mix of glee and mild disappointment. But the town itself? Undeniably magical. The lights twinkled as if placed by elves on a sugar rush, and every Christmas decoration seemed custom-made to perfectly match the Bavarian architecture. Yes, Leavenworth is a tourist money pit in the summer, but come Christmas, it’s indescribably beautiful.

Of course, I could wax poetic about the bacon-wrapped brat I devoured, the wine I sampled, or the pet store stop where Winnie, ever persuasive, demanded a new tennis ball. Yes, I caved, and she naturally chose the largest ball she could feasibly carry. She paraded it everywhere, hurling it at strangers in restaurants and coffee shops, leaving a trail of amused and mildly terrified patrons in her wake.

But let’s get to the real story: New Year’s Eve, and my ultimate fear… spice. Growing up in the Midwest, my palette is unassuming: chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and if we wanted a thrill, maybe a pinch of chili powder. My boyfriend? Deep South origin, a lifetime of bold flavors, and the unshakable belief that I must embrace heat.

“Try this,” he said, shoving a pretzel stick covered in sauce at me. “You can’t be picky forever.” Reluctantly, I sampled stick after stick. Some were amazing. Some… manageable. Then he handed me one final stick.

“It’s called Devil something. But it’s good,” he promised.

“Nope. I’m Catholic; can I opt out?”

He laughed. He did not budge. I bit. At first, it was citrusy, smoky, tantalizing… and then, BOOM. My face turned tomato-red, tears welled up, and I ran out of the store, clutching Winnie like an older woman leaving church. My boyfriend followed me, grabbed the confused dog, and I swear I saw God. My mouth was a furnace. My midwinter chill? Gone. Toasted.

Medical attention came in the form of homemade Bavarian ice cream. Vanilla at first, but I negotiated for maple samples while panting like a marathoner. Sweet relief, until it melted. His parents called. Somehow, I agreed to continue working on my spicy food tolerance.

Later, back at the hot sauce store, I learned the sauce was 9 million Scoville units. I have no frame of reference, but my tongue will never forget.

And so, Lincoln County, while your winter months may be quiet, remember this: some of us are out there braving the cold, lights, bratwursts, and fiery pretzels, just to ensure New Year’s Eve is never boring. Winnie, of course, handled it all like a pro. Me? I survived, slightly charred, and infinitely amused.

Leavenworth gave me lights, bratwurst, and 9 million Scoville units of humility, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.