The Great Chili Debacle
By: The Debacler
It is cold and misty, the kind of day that drives me to the kitchen where I do my best work whipping up culinary masterpieces warm and nurturing to nourish my house full of progeny. Taking a pot large enough to bathe a small toddler from the top shelf of the pantry I marvel at its gleaming mass—a trophy fitting of my domestic triumph. “How many women have a pot this big I think to myself? Relishing my prized pot I hustle to the kitchen and begin sorting and soaking beans. As the earthy legumes bubble and cook the first delicate aroma begins to fill the house. "Mom's cooking". The news spreads like a grease fire. I brown the beef. My hands, swift and nimble, weave and move as I dice vegetables with incredible dexterity. With the agility of a domestic Olympian I transform the mountain of ingredients into a plethora of bubbling chili. Bits of onion, green pepper and tomato dance across the steaming potage. Pungent spices waft through the air beckoning to yon weary children to gather in harmonious repose around the kitchen table. This is it—eternal domestic bliss in a pot. Giddy with delight it hits me, Betty Crocker is an imposter! I, the most accomplished of domestic engineers, have reached the pinnacle of domestic goddessness. Move over Betty you’ve been replaced! I pat myself on the back thinking how great it is that I won’t have to cook for two, maybe three days! Self absorbed with my own cooking prowess, I ladle piping hot chili into wide rimmed earthen bowls. The children delight in the warm and spicy broth laden with beans and tender portions of ground beef. Day one had ended a total success. Civilization as I knew it was safe. My reputation as the world’s greatest mom was once again secure. After tucking the children in to their beds and kissing them gingerly on their angelic brows, I put the left over forty-two gallons of chili in the fridge for another day.
“Chili is always better on the second day”. It’s something mothers say to reassure their children who look at their steaming bowls with distress. Mothers have a profusion of only partially true statements that are designed to ease the anxieties of their children. “Mother knows best” is another one that mothers use to indoctrinate their children even while in utero. Forget the classical music. With head phones stretched across swollen abdomen the message is repeated over and over in a natural rhythmic way, “Mother knows best”, “Mother knows best”, “Mother knows best“. It is only for this reason that my questioning children dutifully eat another bowl of chili.
Day three. Tension hangs ominously in the air. My once appreciative children appear dark and brooding. The sinister affects of an overactive gag reflex are beginning to take their tole. The violence starts slowly, eye rolling and mumbling under their breath. The children, holding their spoons in aggressive positions, eye me as I move cautiously towards the table with the thick sludge that we had once called chili. I feel nervous and a little threatened. Armed only with a dirty ladle I try to defend myself. This is it. I could see it all now, the coroners report would read: Cause of Death - Familial Chili Overload. Dizzy with despair I wonder how could this happen? How could my rise to such perfection, such domestic blessedness be so short lived? Goodbye cruel world.
Such is the devastation, the destruction the complete ruination of excessive leftovers.
Consider yourself warned.