by Steve Penhollow

I arrived in Elwood at 11:50 am on a Saturday, parked my car and made my way to the information booth for the Ellwood/Red Gold Chili Cook-Off.

I thought everything was in order, but I would soon discover that things aren’t always as they seem.

“We’re out of tickets,” a man told me. “And even if we had tickets, there is no more chili left.”

I detected no malice in the man, yet I couldn’t help but feel that he was mocking me with his kind face and regretful expression.

I decided to return his mockery with a sheepish shrug and an offer to help clean up.

Later, while walking around the downtown area and mocking Elwood residents with smiles, waves and long hugs, I tried to think of some way I might rescue my Ellwood/Red Gold Chili Cook-Off experience.

But first, the story of how chili con carne came to be.

The story of how chili con carne came to be is an epic adventure filled with sheer determination, absolute optimism and peppers.

It is a story of utopian dreams and fearlessness about the future, but also strong faith in the time-honored, traditional values of peppers.

The history of chili con carne fosters the notion of civil society unified by a shared appreciation for democracy, human rights and peppers.

The domestication of chili peppers began around 6,000 BC in parts of North America and Central America that are now referred to by anthropologists as Mesoamerica. Before that, chili peppers roamed free on the open range, a symbol of untamed power, potential and Scoville Units.

Native peoples came to appreciate the culinary and medicinal properties of chili peppers and selectively bred them, turning their heads to give the chilis some measure of privacy.

Many people probably assume that chili con carne is of Mexican origin.

As a matter of almost universally accepted fact, chili con carne was created in Texas. There may even have been some animosity toward chili from Mexican chefs and foodies early on.

In 1959, a book called Diccionario de Mejicanismos (Dictionary of Mexicanisms) defined chili in this fashion: “detestable food passing itself off as Mexican, sold in the U.S. from Texas to New York.”

This is more than enough provocation to make a chili-loving person yearn for the existence of a book called Dictionary of Texasisms, in which he might find a disparaging definition of something distinctly Mexican — menudo, for example.

Meaning, the stomach soup, not the pop band.

Well, both, actually.

Starting in the 17th century, Spanish priests fomented against chili con carne. They called it “the soup of the devil” because of its infernal spiciness, its reputation for having aphrodisiacal qualities and because it made them utter profanities in the bathroom after they ate it

But chili outgrew its vulgar reputation to become one of the most beloved foods of Texas.

It was recognized as the official state food in 1977.

The proclamation that memorialized chili in this manner included a chili-based definition of Texas residency, claiming that a person “cannot be a true son or daughter of this state without having [his, her or their] taste buds tingle at the thought of the treat that is real, honest-to-goodness, unadulterated Texas chili.”

In fact, Texas law enforcers went so far as to set up checkpoints where chili was mentioned and drivers’ subsequent tingling, if any, was measured.

It is said that humorist Will Rogers judged a town by the quality of its chili. This is the source of his famous quote, “I never met a man I didn’t like but I have eaten some terrible chili.”

Legend has it that the outlaw Jesse James once refused to rob a bank because that is where his favorite chili parlor was located. Later, he refused to rob a chili parlor because that was where his favorite bank was located.

As much as we as a society like to depend on Jesse James as a role model for living lives of deep faith, integrity and harmony with all God’s creatures, perhaps we should pass him by on the chili issue.

Incidentally, it may interest you to know that when Cher sang, “Tonight you’re gonna go down in flames just like Jesse James” in her song, “Just Like Jesse James,” she was not threatening a foolhardy lothario with her combustible bedroom skills. She was threatening him with her homemade chili.

I know this is true because I read about it in Bad Segue magazine.

But Cher was far from my mind (but never far from my heart) as I wandered the streets of Ellwood, mired in a chili-less purgatory from which no one could purchase release. Or chili.

Release and chili. Those two things could not be had at any price that day; that much was clear.

Then I had an idea that was either smart, bonkers or that unusual combination of the two known widely by the term, smonkers.

I would go back to the cook-off, ask the contestants if they had any chili left and (if so) see if they would just give me some of it.

“It sounds crazy, but it just might work!” I said aloud, knowing instantly that here was a phrase that had never been uttered before in any context. Perhaps this scheme doesn’t strike you as anything particularly crazy. But that is because you are not aware of the dangers inherent in flouting chili contest rules.

Let Tom Cruise have his hanging-off-the-sides-of-planes stunts, thought I. If he really imagines himself such a daredevil, let him try begging chili from chilimongers who have been forbidden to give out any more chili by the highest chili authorities in the immediate vicinity!

Believe me when I write that I was no babe in the woods where chili cookoffs gone awry were concerned. The things I’ve seen would make most people run for the hills. Which hills? Well, whichever are closest. They wouldn’t have to be big hills. Hillocks would be fine. Even knolls.

I have survived the unthinkable. Don’t even try to convince me to describe what I have survived because we both know I can’t do that without thinking about it. In fact, I am thinking about it now! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

Because you have broken me down, I will confess one thing: I was part of a crew that had to bail out over Chile Verde.

I can’t tell you how many times I have had to claw myself back from chili-related chaos to some semblance of stability, which was harder for me than it might be for others because I like to keep my nails neatly trimmed.

Yes, I bear psychic scars from all this, but don’t we all bear psychic scars? Scars that never stop aching, that sometimes bleed, that even call to us from time to time in a dulcet-yet-plaintive voice that sounds like a mixture of Gilbert Gottfried, Chris Tucker and Yoko Ono singing with Chuck Berry?

My scars are like medals to me. And I have been awarded medals that, because they are ugly and poorly made and have words like “Nice Try!” and “Better Luck Next Time!” on them, are like scars to me.

I was afraid to return to the cook-off’s gateway but I knew I had to go back and finish what I’d never started.

As much as I know about the psychology, sociology, physiology and astrology of chili cook-offs, there are always pitfalls that can’t be predicted or prepared for.

“Will these unknowable dangers be dangerous?” I wondered. “Will I be endangered by them? How about the hazards? Will they be hazardous? Will I be enhazarded by them?”

I took a deep breath, steeled myself, gritted my teeth, girded my loins, mustered my courage and smeared mustard on my loins.

The gate looked about the same as I had left it, except there were guards stationed at every entrance. There was only one entrance, but the guards didn’t let that stop them from seeming fearsomely stationed.

My strategy for gaining admittance to the now-closed event was to tell them I was a professional grease collector who was there to gather fat that would be turned into health-giving salves, ointments, unguents, humectants, demulcents, embrocations and liniments.

Unfortunately, I got nervous and inadvertently ended my recitation with “embroidery and lingonberries.”

I exposed myself as a fibber.

“I cannot tell a lie,” I blurted, having just attempted to embroider one. “I just want to see if anybody has some leftover chili that I can taste.”

“Oh, ok,” a deceptively taciturn attendant deceptively drawled. “Good luck.”

Success! I was in!

I knew I had squeaked through by the skin of my teeth and I planned to make the most of my good fortune, although I would be remiss if I didn’t give some credit to my animal cunning.

As it turned out, almost all the aspirants in the chili contest did have chili left and were happy to share it with me.

All the chilis seemed to have beans in them, which was fine with me, but which might have offended Texas chili purists.

I glanced around to see if I could identify any Texas chili purists.

Texas chili purists have opinions about chili that are as hot as the chiles they favor.

It is said that Texas chili purists wouldn’t touch beans with a barge pole, although it is not known whether that has anything to do with a shortage in Texas of barge poles and of people who would be able to identify one if they saw it.

Texas chili purists tend to bristle when you don’t make chili the way they think it should be made and some of them even shoot quills.

But Texas chili purists do deserve credit for having created around chili a special aura, an aura made of unequal parts magic and bodily emission.

A cursory inspection did not reveal any obvious Texas chili purists in Elwood.

My favorite chili was one that didn’t win any awards, which didn’t surprise me at all. As a lifetime soft news journalist, I had served as a judge in many contests. Despite the fact that the goals and characteristics of these contests varied widely, there was one commonality: I always disagreed with the other judges.

At some point, I stopped being asked to judge contests.

I shrugged it off after making the requisite number of panicked phone calls during which I pleaded with former judges who didn’t remember meeting me for an explanation about why I’d been shunned.

My favorite chili was from the Harrison Restaurant & Event Center, located inside the Golf Club of Alexandria, Indiana.

It had a smoky flavor and was as different from the other chilis as chocolate cake is from chocolate mousse.

I like both chocolate cake and chocolate mousse, so don’t try to accuse me of trying to sneak some disparagement into that comparison.

I had a long conversation with a representative of Red Gold, the tomato company that has sponsored the contest for 36 years.

“We have a manufacturing facility here,” she said. “We have our corporate office here in town. Our trucking company is here in town. And we have a factory outlet store that’s open during the week.”

She told me that Red Gold was founded in Orestes, Indiana in 1942.

“They started as a support for the war effort,” she said.

Red Gold has its own chili recipe, which the Red Gold representative told me was made this year using Impossible Burger, the plant-based beef substitute.

Plant-based beef substitute?!? Once again, I glanced around for Texas chili purists.

They don’t always wear cowboy hats, you know. Sometimes, they go undercover, wearing t-shirts with deceptive phrases on them like “Life is short. Eat chili with cinnamon in it,” “Don’t bother me until I’ve had my kidney beans,” and “You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy pasta with chili on top of it, and that’s pretty close.”

But I didn’t see anyone who looked suspicious.

Actually, I saw a lot of people who looked suspicious, but no one who looked suspicious in the way undercover Texas chili purists look suspicious.

So, I was able to enjoy Red Gold’s chili in relative peace.

It was mild and sweet and I liked it a lot.

Here is the truth about the house I grew up in: My mother, God rest her soul, made something called goulash, which was essentially homemade beefaroni.

She also made chili.

Her chili and her goulash were virtually indistinguishable from each other.

So, I grew up eating that and chili out of a can and liking it all.

I don’t think I have ever eaten a chili I would have called bad.

I guess I am a poor judge of chili but I am an excellent cheerleader for it.