The Great Chili Cookoff of 1998

Teresa sang softly to herself as she dumped and stirred, dumped and stirred. Today was going to be the greatest day of her life: the day she won The Great Chili Cookoff. This was her year. She could practically taste it–or was that some chili powder that she’d inhaled trickling down the back of her throat? Never mind.

It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. So far, Teresa had managed to keep quiet enough in the kitchen that she remained undisturbed.

And then she dropped the lid to her pressure cooker.

It hit the floor with a solid bang, and then rolled around on its edge a few times, adding to the din. She cringed, and turned to look down the hall. Sure enough, she saw a thin sliver of light pop on beneath the master bedroom door. About three seconds after that, the baby let out a wail. Teresa sighed.

She scooped up the lid and set it gently on the dining room table on her way to the baby’s room. Halfway there, she remembered that she’d left the stove on, and crisp black bits would not win her the title at The Great Chili Cookoff. The baby let out a more piercing wail, and Teresa cringed anew at the sound of the master bedroom door creaking open. Don was not going to be happy.

She tried to fix it, lightheartedly smiling and waving him back into the bedroom. “I got him, honey, sorry for waking you up. Go finish sleeping. Love you!”

Don gave her the stinkeye and kept coming. “I’ll handle the baby, Terry, you go finish that damn chili that you’ve been obsessing over for the past six years. Jesus Christ, if I never eat another bowl of chili, I could die a happy man.” He continued mumbling to himself about chili this and chili that as he opened the door to the baby’s room and then closed it behind him.

Teresa’s face fell, but she returned to the kitchen and turned the stove back on. “This is my year, I just know it. That’ll show you, Don. That’ll show everyone!”

A quick stir moved the black burnt bits from the bottom of the pan to the top, and Teresa sank to the floor in tears.

This year wasn’t going to be her year, after all.

Don came out of the baby’s room and knelt next to his wife, tenderly wrapping his arms around her. “Don’t worry, hon, there’s always next year. You’ll win it yet. I know you will.”

In his room, the baby began his wail anew.





Yea Verily, Sex Toys Mentioned

I am this close to finally putting a pencil and paper in my bedside table.

I have spent the last three days trying my damnedest to remember what the hell I was going to write about. It came to me when I was dozing the other day, and I repeated three words to myself enough that I thought I would be able to remember.

Yeah, I remember the three damn words, alright.

chili cookoff compliment

Those three words have become the bane of my existence. I cannot for the life of me figure out what I had in mind when I chose those to represent the super genius post idea I came up with.


And you know, a friend of ours gave me, in my Christmas gift bag, a whole set of kitty cat covered tiny notepads that would be abso-freaking-lutely perfect to cram into my nightstand drawer next to the vibrators, nail clippers, and wasabi dark chocolate (we’re pretty kinky). But no.

Honestly, I have no idea what happened to the rest of the notepads, aside from the one I put in the purse that I haven’t been carrying since I got a wallet phone case.

chili cookoff compliment


Their miniature alliteration taunts me day and night.

Last night, while I tried to find a comfortable position to wrap myself around the ball of hatred that is my right kidney, they teased me, just out of reach on the tip of my brain.

Yesterday afternoon, while we wandered the grocery store, loading up on yogurt and buffalo sauce (don’t ask–or do; I made the bomb buffalo chicken mac-n-cheese last night).

Tuesday morning, while I perused Facebook, seeking signs of intelligent life and finding only Trump supporters.

chili cookoff compliment

If I type it enough will it come back to me?

It would not seem to be so.

I wonder if I’ll ever remember what I was talking about.

Probably not. Stupid chili.