On the first day of Thai cooking class several years ago, our teacher, Kasma, asked each of us what our tolerance was for chili heat, on a scale of 1 to 10.

I love spicy food and secretly thought I was a 9, but modestly replied 6 or 7, in the range of most of the class.

Then we got cooking and we all quickly discovered that authentic Thai food uses an entirely different scale, one where jalapeños covered in Tabasco sauce on a bed of habañeros would rate about a 2.

Sixteen classes later, after weeks of preparing and downing progressively hotter dishes that still weren’t anywhere near spicy enough according to Kasma, my friend Holly and I graduated at about a Thai 5, which would get us classified as total wimps in Bangkok.

But trust me, that’s still plenty hot. Holly recently reminded me that when we gave a dinner party to show off our new skills, my shrimp and lemongrass soup (which I thought I had ratcheted way down) nearly killed off our guests during the first course.

I still feel bad about that. It’s frustrating to be served a dish that combines tantalizing flavor with esophagus-searing pain. I know — I’ve been there.

When I was about 8, my family went to visit former neighbors who had moved to the mountains. My sister Judy and I had been friends with their daughter Ellen, so we eagerly anticipated seeing her, and I’m sure we enjoyed the day.

But that’s not why the trip is burned into my memory (and quite possibly my stomach lining).

I remember it vividly because of dinner.

Ellen’s dad had made a gigantic pot of chili to feed us all. And did it smell good! After a day of playing in the autumn woods, I was starving.

He dished it up and we all dug in. And then started gasping. To say he had overdone it with the dried chili pepper is an understatement. I think he had dumped in the entire jar. Even a Thai might have blinked at the results.

I was so hungry I kept trying, taking tiny bites and large gulps of milk. Even so, I only managed to down a minuscule portion. And the thing is, it tasted great. If it hadn’t been so incredibly hot, I would have loved it. I sat at the table blinking back tears of frustration and pain.

I glanced over to my mother and she had on her polite company face as she pushed beans around in her bowl, trying to make it look as if she had eaten some. She never did like spicy food. And then I looked at my dad, he of the cast-iron stomach.

“This chili is great!” he exclaimed. But what was going on? His face was bright red, and he was perspiring like he had just run a marathon on the hottest day in July. In one hand he held his fork, and in the other his handkerchief, which he was using to mop his brow. With every bite, he took another swipe at the water running down his face. I think I even saw steam rising above his head.

While the rest of us sat there faking it and praying there was ice cream for dessert, he ate three huge bowls of that incendiary chili, sweating profusely all the while. It was an awe-inspiring display of stamina and digestive power. If anyone had been scoring, even the Thai judge would have given him a 10.

He can really take the heat.

I haven’t yet made shrimp and lemongrass soup for him, but I’m sure if I did he’d take a sip and ask for extra chilies.

Come to think of it, he’s been having a bit of a problem with water retention. I think I’ll bring the recipe with me and cook it for him when I see him at Thanksgiving.

I’ll ratchet it back up to Kasma level — and warn him to stock up on handkerchiefs.

Tom Yom Goong

(Shrimp and Lemongrass Soup)

Thai cooking requires some pantry commitment, as a few of the ingredients are hard to track down in local supermarkets. Lemongrass is essential for this soup, and these days it’s fairly ubiquitous. Galangal (a root related to ginger but with a flavor more like sandalwood) and kaffir lime leaves may be more difficult to locate — if necessary you can leave them out, though they really add flavor and it’s worth the effort to track them down. (Fresh galangal keeps well in the freezer once you find it, and the dried version lasts for years in the cupboard. For the lime leaves, I recommend you do what I did — plant a tree. That way you’ll always have them on hand.)

With those ingredients, this fairly simple version from Nancie McDermott’s excellent little cookbook “Quick and Easy Thai,” tastes quite authentic — and delicious.

Just go easy on the chilies and you probably won’t kill anyone.

Serves 4 to 6

3 Tbsp. fresh lime juice

1 Tbsp. very thinly sliced hot red or green chilies (the tiny Thai ones are best) or adjust amount to taste

2 scallions, very thinly sliced

6 kaffir lime leaves, torn into quarters

2 Tbsp. fresh cilantro leaves

3 cups chicken stock

3 stalks fresh lemongrass, dry outer leaves removed, trimmed to 3 inches at the base, then sliced on a very long diagonal

5 slices fresh, frozen or dried galangal

1/2 pound medium shrimp, peeled and deveined

1 cup thinly sliced mushrooms

2 Tbsp. Thai or Vietnamese fish sauce

2 Tbsp. roasted chili paste (optional) (I’ve easily found this in the international foods section of the supermarket)

In the bowl you’ll use to serve the soup family style, combine the lime juice, scallions and half the lime leaves.

In a medium saucepan, combine the chicken stock, lemongrass, galangal and the rest of the lime leaves. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat and cook for 3 to 4 minutes. Add the shrimp and mushrooms and cook 2 to 3 minutes, until the shrimp are pink and the mushrooms are tender. Stir in the fish sauce and roasted chili paste, then pour the hot soup over the lime juice and herbs in the serving bowl and stir well. Sprinkle the cilantro leaves on top and serve.

Betty Teller petted Eddie just after chopping the hot peppers and he hasn’t forgiven her yet. Reach her at amuse-bouche@sbcglobal.net.