Rumor has it that there was some big football game on yesterday. And I’m a fan of football.
Maybe it’s because I spent my childhood wearing “Luv Ya Blue!” t-shirts and #34 Earl Campbell jerseys, only to have the Houston Oilers break my daddy’s heart every season, but I just don’t care about professional sports in general.
I know. It’s like I’m not even an American.
Anyway, our church has an annual Super Bowl party complete with chili cook-off and so that’s what we did yesterday. Actually, P went early to grill various meats with his Sportsman’s Group and to deliver his entry in the chili cook-off. I showed up a little later with Caroline and a plate of brownies that didn’t have sufficient time to cool and basically looked like a plate of chocolate that someone had sat on.
When I walked into church there were crockpots bearing homemade chili as far as the eye could see. And this is where I have to make another confession.
I am not a fan of the chili cook-off.
It’s not that I don’t like chili. Au contraire. I count a Frito Pie among my top five comfort foods.
The thing is that a chili cook-off is a risky proposition. You never know when you’ll encounter a chili that’s too spicy, or has too much cumin, or, heaven help us, red beans. Let’s not even discuss the fact that the cook-off component involves a lot of people dipping into the same pot of chili.
Is there such thing as a buffet phobia? Because I think I have one.
I might as well add another embarrassing fact to an increasingly long list of other embarrassing facts I’ve shared over the years. My chili palate is very sophisticated and involves a can with a Hormel label.
The canned variety makes me feel secure. I know where it’s been and I know how it will taste. And don’t tell me any horror stories about canned goods and what happens in the factories or I will be forced to stick my fingers in my ears and say “La-la-la-la, I can’t hear you”. It’s bad enough that I have to live with the knowledge that Burger King’s Crispy Chicken Sandwich (which I adored) is one of the worst possible fast food items you can eat.
Let me keep this last shred of culinary innocence.
I’m not kidding. Do not tell me your canned goods horror stories.
I have enough quirks and phobias as it stands.
And in other totally unrelated news, guess what I haven’t done in two weeks?
Painted the backhouse.
It’s primed and ready to go, but I have fallen off the paint wagon and can’t get up.
I just needed to get that out in the open, along with my fear of chili cook-offs.