A Chili Story – Pass the spoon 

Back in the early ’90s, I started going on an annual golf trip to Lake Shastina, a place where everything breaks away from the mountain, particularly putts.

But Shastina was more than just a golf course with bunkers filled with lava – It was discovery and delirium, and the part that stuck had nothing to do with golf. 

The 6th Green

We stayed at the Peterson house, just off the 6th hole.  It slept about 7.5 and accommodated plenty around the 6th Green.  The 6th required an above-average straight drive. The alternative is lava and trees.  If you find yourself there, you are officially a fire hazard.  

Anyway, we would all gather around, place bets, and talk a little smack to whoever was playing through. The 2^nd shot was fun to watch from the house.  On average, players are hitting a 7-iron in.   

That day we played 36 holes… plus a bonus nine. Because at some point, logic leaves the building. By the time the last putt fell, we were lit, and the banter began.  

At the house, we played poker, talked smack, and watched golf – I think the Open Championship was happening. Someone was out back queuing some burgers amongst the pines.   

The sun dropped, and the desert air cooled. 

Enter Mike “Crazy Eyes”  

Mike was a bow hunter from Montana. Gruff. Cigar smoker. Golf swing held together by a flaw we called The Wrap, his left arm would come around his body like it was trying to escape, sending the ball 45 degrees off target. 

His toupee didn’t help either. Occasionally, it would shift mid-round and sit on his head like a foreign growth… honestly, it sometimes looked like an industrial barbecue brush.  Finally, about ten years later, Mike confessed to the toupee. He had no idea we were aware of the “add on.”

Mike didn’t swear much, and his swing advice was simple:

Like Shiva’s Irons, he would say, “Put the ball down and whack it!”  but then, with Crazy Eyes, he would adamantly gesticulate the whacking motion and say, “Then you whack it again and again, until you find the hole.”  Crazy Eyes loved the game and his chili.   Elk Chili.

Mike’s chili did not hide behind spices and sweat-evoking heat, like a bad comedian leaning on dirty jokes.  He created a chili that transcended all food groups. It was pure and consoling. Like they say in “Swingers”…So money.

Once you’ve had Crazy Eye’s chili, canned chili is not an option. Dennison’s?………….Dead to me.

Every trip, Mike and I had a ritual.

With a little Purple Haze, matches, and brews, we’d hike up Zen Mountain, a 700-foot hill that offered an obscured view of the 7th Fairway. We’d sit up there, looking out over the course, discussing golf, life, and the universe.

One year, under a bright moon and “the influence”, I spotted a rock formation. To me, it was unmistakable. A whale’s mouth breaching from the rubble!

Somewhere in the background, I caught a glimpse of Captain Ahab. And in that moment of clarity, which was anything but, I made a declaration, “Let’s stash the weed in the whale’s mouth. Next year, we come back and claim our prize!”

It was brilliant until we went back to find the prize. We might as well have been looking for a golf ball in the middle of a driving range. Gone. Like most of our ideas up there.

Around 2010, I started making chili for Halloween. 

At first, it was simple. Maybe 20 friends. Everyone loved it, especially when we added lime, a move I stole directly from Mike. 

The lime mattered. It cut through the richness. Brightened everything.
It made people stop mid-bite and look at you like you knew something.

Then more people came.

Then neighbors.
Then neighbors’ cousins.
Then hundreds of trick-or-treaters.

I wasn’t hosting a party anymore. 

People at the door. Candy moving. Chili flowing. Me in the middle of it like some kind of deranged soup nazi. And I was usually a bit toasted.  It worked for a long time, until it didn’t. 

After about ten years, the crowd thinned. Same core group. Still fun. But quieter. Less energy. More leftovers. 

That’s when it hit me. I just spent 24 hours crafting an amazing batch, and fewer people showed up to care.  Perhaps my Chili days are over.   

I rarely made a bad batch.  I might have tried a new ingredient, say peanut butter, but while it didn’t taste quite the same, the worst description I ever got was “interesting.”  

But there was a day, a very dark day, when rationalization and compassion did not lessen the blow.  I was invited on a houseboat trip. I was advertised as the amazing Chili Man. Expectations were high. I brought a great batch and, before heading out to ski, got it simmering on the Stove for dinner.   

Did I turn the stove down?

It was late afternoon on Lake Shasta, pushing toward four. We were out past the main channel, tucked into one of the arms where the water turns to glass. No wind, boat wake stretches forever, every sound carrying just a little farther than it should. 

Bill was driving. 

We got a few clean runs in. Long pulls. No chop. After a solid run, I dropped back into the boat and sat for a second, looking across the glass. 

“Couple more?” Bill asked, already easing the throttle. I hesitated. “Yeah… maybe one,” I said. Then I paused. “Actually – let’s head back.”

Bill glanced over. “You sure? This is about as good as it gets.” I nodded. “Yeah. I need to check on the Chili.” 

“Alright,” he said, turning the wheel. “Let’s go check on your masterpiece.

We eased back toward the houseboat; the water barely moved under us. About fifty yards out, I saw it. A black plume of smoke was coming from the galley. 

Bill leaned forward. “Mmmmmmmm, I’m looking forward to some smoked chili.” He laughed. 

My heart sank. 

I hopped from the ski boat to the base and dashed to the Kitchen.  Before I opened the kitchen door, the host said, “I tried to save it, but the burner was on high.”   

Flashes of Crazy Eyes haunted my mind.   

The bottom inch of the chili had fused into roofing material. At least I brought garlic bread.  I felt shame.  Speaking in the third person helped.  The Chili Man had just cremated his headline act.

I bought 3 tasting kits, which entitled me to taste 30 chilis.

As I tasted, I told the Chili Makers that I was writing an article; I had no connection to any publication.  

By the end, I ate thirty servings of chili – about half a gallon.  I took about 50 pictures and interviewed 30 teams 

I learned something important that day: while chili cook-offs are about chili, but if you want to bring home the gold, you need: 

• Visibility
• Branding
• Emotional manipulation
• Presentation
• Your Chili Army (People’s Choice)

In 2024, I finally entered a cookoff.  I had no expectations, but I have to admit, I was a little nervous.  How would my Chili Stack up?   

15 Chili Teams were set up at a large U-shaped table configuration.  I scanned the entries.  Some people had cornbread, sourdough, and Crackers.  We had chips, limes and all the usual condiments. 
One competitor had nothing but a crockpot and a spoon.  They called him Smug Heat. 

Smug Heat pulled in votes with a chili that was ok, but it had heat. Real heat.  

That’s when it hit me.  Originally, I was going to make half a batch, so I bought half as many chilies as I normally would.  Then I decided to make a full batch with just half the peppers. 

I didn’t panic; I noted it.  Heat, done right, wins.  And yes, Smug Heat won People’s Choice.  

Then the MC stepped back up to the mike and announced, “And for Judges’ Choice……..the Bacon Team!”  

I froze, then it hit me:  I won. I am somebody. 

After many batches, a Frankenstein or two, and a multitude of revelations, I learned that you can bring a surprising amount of joy to people with a thoughtful bowl of chili. I didn’t expect that. I thought maybe I’d get a polite nod and a quick exit. Instead, people lingered. Went back for seconds. Being a Chili Man brings joy to humanity, one Chili Head at a time.

Now, back in the Chili Days, it always started with the base. That’s where everything either comes together… or it falls apart and you are forced to make last minute adjustments. The problem is that the adjustments don’t have the opportunity to amalgamate.

You build it slowly. Emulsified chili blend, a few different peppers, cumin, brown sugar, a touch of high-cacao chocolate – which sounds aggressive, but somehow behaves – garlic, and a clean IPA. All of it sitting in a one-to-one mix of tomato sauce and chicken broth. Nothing dramatic yet. Just the beginning of something that might work.

Then you let it simmer. Low heat. Time does most of the work, which is frustrating if you’re the kind of person who likes to feel useful. You’ll be tempted to intervene. Don’t. This is where restraint is key.

Now here’s where people get it wrong – they rush the meat. The meat (tri-tip, ground beef, top sirloin, and Jimmy Dean) doesn’t want to be rushed. It shows up about four hours in, once the base has figured out who it is.

There are also a few things I don’t fully explain. Every pot deserves a little mystery. Let’s just say I found a substitute for beans that changed everything. Not in a dramatic, “call the press” way. Just in a quiet, undeniable, “this is better” way.

Then – and this is critical – you let it rest overnight in the refrigerator. This is where the chili gets its act together. Everything melds, mellows, and limbers up. People often skip this step. Don’t do it!

The next day, you wake up, Frankenstein slowly. Another four hours, stirring, tasting, and tweaking. Not overcorrecting – just small decisions. Great Chili is less about cooking and more about knowing when to leave it alone. Breathe in the aroma, take a taste, but be deliberate and gentle when massaging the magic brew. If you do it right, Frankenstein will sing like Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music. Or as The Dude would say, “that really ties the room together.”

Two years later, my son Willy joined me for the first time.  He didn’t cook, didn’t stir; he didn’t even touch the pot.  But ultimately, he changed everything.  Willy showed me that he has instincts.  He was like a kung fu master.  

Shortly before tasting began, Myles, the MC, stopped by our chili station. “How about a taste of your championship Chili, he asked.

“Of course,” I said, handing him a loaded sample.

He took a bite. “This is complex. What’s that sweetness from?” and before I could answer, he looked up with a grinchy grin and said, “The heat is just right,” then he panned his finger from the limes to the sharp chedder, the sour cream, and the diced red onion, and added, “but a notch hotter might have presented an insurable risk.”

“Thanks, Myles!” I laughed.

“What’s the name of your winning batch?” he asked.

I glanced at Willy and said, “Bluesman.”

“Really, Dad? It’s time to mix it up.” Willy grabbed a fresh beer, and as he walked away, he said, “I’ll be back.” 

“Where are you going?”   

“I am going to make a sign.” 

Fifteen minutes later, he returned holding a sign with a pyramid, a prism, and a name.   

“The Dark Side of the Spoon.” 

It was a daytime cookoff. Public. No ambiguity. Plenty of witnesses. 

You could smell it before you saw it. A low cloud of cumin, smoke, and slow meat drifting across the crowd. People moving from pot to pot, plastic cups in hand, acting like they knew what they were doing. 

The lineup told the truth. Bright reds, dull browns, a few that looked rushed, a few that looked overworked. Some oily. Some thin. None of them had that deep, cohesive red – the kind that sits smooth and steady, like it knows exactly where it’s going. 

Ours did. 

The first taste didn’t give it away. Balanced. Controlled. Then it showed up – slow heat, building, not spiking. You could see it in people’s faces about ten seconds in. A pause. A nod. Then they’d go back for another. 

We had three things working: 

• A name  
• A chili that delivered  
• And friends and family who participated… enthusiastically in the voting process  

That’s how these things are won. 

We took People’s Choice. No debate. No investigation required.  Then came Judges’ Choice. 

They stepped up to announce it, “And the winner of Judges’ Choice goes to the … The Bacon Group, congratulations.” 

Clear as day. We completed the Bacon Slam, but they handed the Judges’ Choice Apron to The Coffee Clan. We didn’t mind the Coffees donning the apron; they were great to hang out with. They must have bought more wine!   We’d already won Judges’ Choice two years earlier, so we saw no need to haggle over the hardware. 

But we knew it.  That was the Bacon Slam. 

At the end of it all, Willy and I were standing in the winner’s circle.  And none of it – the golf, the chili, or the wins – mattered more than that moment.  This stopped being about me. Something was passing down.  Not the recipe. Not the technique; it was something harder to explain. 

The spoon changed hands. 

Volcano inhaled the aroma’s drift, 
Stirred with care, elk rose from the mist, 
Deep red, sweetness, the heat shows 
Sweet at the start, the long burn grows. 
 
Years rolled by, the porchlight shined, 
Batch by batch, the concoction refined, 
Lines ran long outside the door, 
Said the Raven, “Nevermore.” 
 
Midnight perched on the edge of doubt, 
Tapped at the door till the light went out, 
But moonlight gathered what fear had strewn, 
And forged new fire beneath that spoon. 
 
Chorus

Same fire, different hand, 
Legacy and obsession, we didn’t plan, 
Echoes rise with a harvest moon, 
See you soon, on the Dark Side of the Spoon. 
 
I was sure it wasn’t mine that day, 
Watched the tally slip away, 
Started hummin’ my concession tune, 
Then, “Judges’ Choice… Bacon, I presume.” 
 
Same fire, different hand, 
Legacy and obsession, we didn’t plan, 
Echoes rise with a harvest moon, 
See you soon, on the Dark Side of the Spoon. 

Late afternoon, smoke hangin’ low, 
The day had nowhere left to go, 
I’d tried a name, you said no way! 
You walked, Chagrined and dismayed 

You came back steady, sure as the moon, 
Carrying prism, pyramid … Dark Side of the Spoon. 
When that name popped, I finally knew, 
This wasn’t chili anymore; it grew. 
 
Instrumental 

You could feel a shift in the room, 
Something rising that afternoon, 
Then they called it, loud and clear, 
People’s Choice…the crowd cheered! 
 
Bridge 
 
Down south, where the warm winds start, 
There’s a steady light inside my heart. 
She’s not here when the crowd gets loud, 
But I carry her fire, loving and proud. 
 
Same fire, different hand, 
Legacy and obsession, we didn’t plan, 
Echoes rise with a harvest moon, 
See you soon, on the Dark Side of the Spoon.