People who know me usually don’t encourage me to cook for them; this is why I was surprised when a very nice woman called and asked me if I would submit a pot of my “special homemade chili” to the Big Chili Cook Off. I was instantly wary.
“Do I know you?” I asked warily.
“No,” she said, “but I’ve read your work.”
“If you read my work,” I said, “you’d know I can’t cook”
“Nonsense,” she said heartily, adding, “Anyone can make a pot of chili.” I was silent, so she added, “It’s for charity. After the judging it will go to a homeless kitchen.”
“What have you got against the homeless?” I asked, before I realized what she had just said. “I’m going to be judged?” I asked, appalled. “In public?” I started to decline but she cut me off.
“It’s for a good cause,” she said. I was silent. “I’ll send you the rules,” she said hastily; “see you there!” And she hung up.
My partner was encouraging. “How hard can it be?” he asked; “even I can make chili.” I nodded glumly, not comforted. My partner is an even worse cook than I am: His “chili” begins as a meat loaf; when it falls apart, as it invariably does, he mixes in a a couple cups of catsup, stirs it up into a soupy mess and calls it “chili.”
“Oh God, no!” I said spontaneously.
“So don’t use my recipe,” he said in an offended tone, adding, “Why not use your mom’s recipe?” Now I was really worried: When I was a kid my mother would make a huge pot of sloppy joes to feed her large, hungry family. Days later, when we were all sick of sloppy joes she would mix in a can of kidney beans, serve it over Minute Rice and call it “chili.”
I decided to do some research: My main concern was I knew that many people take chili very seriously and I didn’t want to be publicly humiliated. That’s when I learned just how seriously people take their chili. I learned that some “real” chili cooks mix upwards of 30 individual spices together or use ground filet mignon or add truffle oil to their masterpiece. I learned that serious chili cooks add some dark, bitter chocolate for “complexity” or organic peanut butter for “depth” or aged Kentucky bourbon to tickle the palate. I learned that unless I used organic kidney beans I would never hold my head up in public again. Seriously depressed, I considered opening up a can of Hormel’s but it was against the rules.
On the day of the event I decided to improvise. I browned some ground beef, added in a package of McCormick’s chili seasoning and threw in a jar of Old El Paso salsa. I added a liberal dose of Jack Daniels and a can of stewed tomatoes. I added some ancient jalapenos I found in the back of the refrigerator, carefully throwing away the moldy ones.
But it still needed ….. something. I was fresh out of dark, bitter chocolate and organic peanut butter but, inspired, I remembered I had some leftover Reese’s peanut butter cups from last Halloween, so those went into the pot too. At the last minute I tossed in a can of kidney beans and I was done.
I took my pot of chili to the judging area and then, skulking in the shadows, I watched the judging intently. It took a long time for the judge to get to my entry, but I suspected that a ribbon was not in my immediate future when he took a bite of my chili and his eyes grew very wide. He gulped hard and took a long drink of water. He moved on to the next entry but he kept looking back at my pot, as though concerned it might attack.
Several days later he called me: no, I had not won a prize but he said there was a flavor in my chili he could not identify that was making him crazy.
I was thinking of the Reese’s Cups. “It’s a secret family recipe,” I said.