So picture this: two years ago, I made reservations at a nice little campground that advertised a chili cook-off on Saturday followed by trick-or-treating for the kids. Now, there are a few things in life I love more than cooking and eating… but not many. And just to be clear I’m not overweight, I’m just vertically challenged for my mass. Gravity is just doing its job. Blame science.
My friends have always said my chili is “amazing,” followed quickly by, “but do you have any Tums?” Let’s just say if you can still feel your tongue after eating it, I’ve failed you. My wife Dawn, bless her delicate, spice-fearing soul, prefers flavors in the range of Gerber Stage 1. Think mashed banana with a hint of regret.
Now, let me tell you something about chili people: they guard their recipes like it’s the formula for Coca-Cola mixed with the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices. When they’re cooking, they hover over their pots like a mama bear with a cub—and God help you if you even sniff in their direction.
And speaking of controversy: I have a message for my friends in Texas. Real chili has beans. There. I said it. Fight me. Without beans, it’s just meat soup. And don’t even try to argue—if Blazing Saddles had been filmed with Texas-style chili, the campfire scene would’ve been way less explosive. (P.S., if you’re under 30 or easily offended, maybe don’t watch that movie. Or at least wear earmuffs.)
Anyway, in the spirit of the event—and a little nod to the Lone Star purists—I cook my chili the old-school way: over an open flame, in cast iron, like the good Lord intended. I break out my two No. 12 Dutch ovens. (That’s right—TWO. Because one pot isn’t enough for all this awesomeness.)
So in the week leading up to the trip, I’m running around like a madman collecting the finest ingredients. I’m at the butcher on Thursday, getting my holy trinity: 4 pounds of sirloin, 2 pounds of bacon, and 2 pounds of Andouille sausage. The butcher looks at me like I’m trying to summon the meat gods. I tell him, “Grind it all together, friend. Make it one.” Dawn’s in the background, shaking her head so hard she’s basically blending a smoothie with her neck.
Saturday: Cook-off day. Time: 0430. That’s military for I’ve lost my mind. I’m up before the squirrels. I’m bouncing around the fire pit, plotting my moves like Bobby Flay on espresso. Friday night, I was so excited I drove Dawn nuts listing chili ideas. It was basically a one-man reenactment of Forrest Gump, but with chili instead of shrimp. “You got spicy chili, sweet chili, smoky chili, chili with corn, chili with beans, three-bean chili, no-bean chili (just kidding, that’s stew)…” Somewhere between “ghost pepper chili” and “chili with shrimp?” Dawn just mumbled something that sounded like “divorce” and went inside.
So there I am, before the sun’s even awake, fire roaring, cast iron heating up. My chili base: tomatoes, tomato sauce, chili powder, cumin, onions, hot Rotel, garlic, and yes… BEANS. I also toss in my secret weapons: one Bhut Jolokia, one Carolina Reaper (seeds and all), and a dab—and I mean dab—of extra hot capsicum extract. This stuff could be classified as a chemical weapon in some countries. The sauce simmers lovingly for hours, slowly morphing into what I can only describe as lava with flavor.
At noon, I spot people walking around the campground—chili spies. I know their game. Drawn by the smell, trying to get a peek. I raise the Marine flag outside the site like a battle standard. This chili is under military protection.
Now it’s meat time. I sneak into the camper like a chili ninja, grab the pre-blended carnivore cocktail, and brown it in the cast iron. The smell? Absolute heaven. A bald eagle cried a single tear.
Fast-forward to 3 PM. It’s almost turn-in time. Time to add my final secret twist: crushed cashews, cinnamon, and a light dusting of ghost pepper flakes. Why? Because chaos. I set up a tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, crackers, and sour cream nearby—first aid for the unprepared.
I lug the Dutch oven up to the turn-in table like I’m Frodo delivering the One Ring. My entry number? 13. Cue horror movie music. The judges take their samples. When they get to mine, one guy takes a bite, stops, and gives the others a look that screams, “What fresh hell is this?” He reaches for the peanut butter sandwich like it’s an EpiPen. Another judge chugs milk like a frat boy at a ghost pepper challenge.
Then… the moment of truth.
Third place: Not me.
Second place: ME. Boom! Cue the confetti cannons! (In my head.)
One of the judges tells me, “Honestly, that was the best chili flavor-wise. But it burned through my taste buds like a forest fire on napalm.” Fair enough.
Afterward, everyone got to try each chili, and despite mine being rated R for language and heat level, a few brave souls came back for seconds. The kids trick-or-treated, the adults swapped heartburn remedies, and I walked away already planning for next year.
Because next time, I’m coming for first place.
With beans. Always beans.
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