Chili is in my blood. It is part of who I am.
Of all the dishes my mother made for our family, it is her chili that I remember with the most fondness. Of all the dishes served for lunch at my high school, it is the chili that I remember as most edible.
It is, for me, the ultimate comfort food.
When I first moved to Texas, a new colleague who soon became a fast friend held a dinner party to welcome me. He served chili. To be specific, he served hot chili. Volcanic chili. He thought it would be entertaining to offer Yankee Boy a bowl of tongue-searing spices.
I gobbled it up and asked for more while the others were still dripping sweat over their first bowls. I was sweating, too, but not as profusely. I think. At any rate, I passed the test. I was accepted.
Chili has that kind of power, that kind of status. It is the type of food you bond over; arguments can be placated with a good bowl of chili. And in the days when roadside diners ruled the landscape, the one dish you could be certain to find everywhere was chili. And it would be good.