Fairness is a Crock (Pot)

A story about culinary heartbreak, wherein our heroine realizes that to win, one must be prepared to don the toga of Lady Justice herself and do what needs doing, when it is, in fact, others who are truly blind.

The ultimate victory in competition is derived from the inner satisfaction of knowing that you have done your best and that you have gotten the most out of what you had to give. 

– Said no one fucking ever (except Howie the Fraud…asshole.)

A critical incident occurred 12 noon here at my workplace. I do not use the term “critical” lightly, as this is the day of the Annual Chili-Cook-Off. I take cooking seriously, as a bonafide southern belle I take cooking chili even more seriously. So when I heard about this competition, I began to get small flutters of heart palpitations just thinking of the many delicious flavor profiles that I could put together to ensure a win. After all, I had no clue what the prize would be, and did it even matter? The real thrill is knowing that you have grappled with Madam Chance, thrown her bruised and bloody to the mat screaming for mercy while you obliterate the other competitors in a culinary flurry of wide-mouthed ladles, sturdy trivets, and crockpot-contained flair. 

So, on Tuesday night, I began my grocery strategy. Fresh ingredients, spices, aromatics, and of course, the meat. Everything was coming together beautifully in the kitchen and before long, 48 hours in advance, I had slaved over my hot stove to create a masterful dish representative of patriotic, flag-waving, oh-say-can-you-see¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸¸ Americana: Down Home Southern Chili (or so it would be titled on the voting ballot). I set it aside in the fridge to allow the rich and sultry flavors to marry and settle, even though they had been concentrated by at least 6 hours of low simmering on the stove and the aroma filled the neighborhood. Small children wept as the fridge door closed, thinking that their chance to taste this culinary masterpiece was gone forever. And, sadly for those wee tikes in the streets, it was. This is COMPETITION chili. Don’t get emotionally involved unless you’re the one competing, kids.

Finally it was the big day. I put the chili into my biggest slow cooker that morning and found a secluded spot in our corporate cafe area to crank up the heat to begin to simmer it, full of smoky promise, once again. My condiments stood at the ready just as all good soldiers do when they are called upon to line up for battle: cilantro, scallions, sour cream, cheddar cheese grated fresh from the block. Stylistically, I left nothing to chance as I artfully arranged all of the components on my own little table. I left it alone, knowing all the while that the clock was ticking slowly towards High Noon.

Unfortunately, I was in a bit of a scheduling predicament that day. My generous mentor and boss wanted to take me out to lunch for my birthday and this was the only time in two weeks that she had free. So, I raced out of my late morning meetings to finish setting up, checked in the with the Special Events Committee members who were putting on this great festivity, and left, secure in the knowledge that all would be right with the world when I returned to work only a few hours later to the sounds of cheers and applause from my colleagues in arms.

As I was leaving, I took a gander at my competition. The breakdown is as follows:

Competitor  #1. Her chili appeared more orange in color than dark brown, a clear sign that caramelization did not occur in her dish and thus the chili would lack the depth of flavor that mine had to offer.

Competitor  #2. Her chili was aptly named “E-Z Pleeeeeezzzzeeee Chili” because it came from a can. When I hear this, I think not of how this should be disqualified because it’s cheating. Just that there are those out there, by God’s design, who were put on the earth for the sole purpose of making others look exceptionally great by their unabashed commitment to mediocrity and display of all things banal.

Competitor  #3. She hails from the Philippines where the land’s most revered dish is a fertilized duck embryo that has been boiled in its shell like a hardboiled egg. It’s called “belot”. SERIOUSLY. Saw it on Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmerman on TLC. Even he spat it out. I don’t think I need to say more.

Competitor  #4. She is FIERCE. I automatically peg her as my biggest threat. A Mexican American who spent considerable time in southern Texas and lives and dies by her white marble mortar and pestle to grind her own dried chilies that she gets imported from South America. I start to sweat a little, as all of my artistic insecurities threatened to rise up against me if I should let down my guard with her.

Competitor  #5, the Chaplain. He hails from Sri Lanka. Judging by his thick accent and rotund frame, I am sure that he knows more about rice and Naan bread than chili, especially because he doesn’t eat beef. Not to mention the fact that when I glance over at his dish, I see a milky marigold substance drizzled with red oil suspended on the top. BUT, we all know, red chili oil does not a real chili make.

So, six competitors are to do battle in the cafe from 12-12:45pm and the judging will then commence until 1pm with the winner being announced at the top of the hour. I leave with my supervisor to my own feast out of the office, feeling confident and tasting victory.

Upon my return 1 hour and 45 minutes later, I am greeted at the employee entrance by many of my dear friends! They are all telling me congratulations and that I should be very proud of myself, considering that I came in such a close second to Competitor #5, our Chaplain.

WAIT…………WHAT?????????

SECOND?????? You mean FIRST LOSER, right? That’s all that SECOND is!!!! 

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

THE SRI LANKAN PASTOR? THAT beef-snubbing fiend? That one? 

THIS IS THE GRAVEST INJUSTICE OF OUR TIME!!!! 

“Oh, really? Well, that’s lovely. I am so happy for him….” I say as I leave my supervisor in the dust and march my fired-up ass directly to HR to demand a recount of the votes in question.

“HOW were these votes tallied? I know it’s not the Bush era any more, but were chads to blame? I was raised in the south! Chili is in my blood! I demand a recount!” I bellowed from the depths of my soul. The HR people looked at me, stunned and yet smiling, seemingly sympathetic to my plight. BUT, I didn’t want their pity, I wanted answers, people. Did I mention he’s Sri Lankan?

HR told me that I lost by about 6 votes out of the 57 people who turned out for the tastings. The following information was then divulged in what felt like a slow motion nightmare:

1. My dish was loved by all. Actually, it ran out FIRST. Basic scraped clean, practically licked along the edges. But, it RAN OUT. Ah ha! Depending on timing, that would mean that maybe not everyone got to TASTE my chili, thus eliminating me as a choice in the voting process and allowing other chili imposters (I’ll say it again: SRI LANKAN) to take the lead!

2. Some of the participants in the tasting did not understand the concept of TASTING. So, some took big scoops out of the bowl (and my sinking soul in the process, I might add) of my culinary genius and left, not even voting, thus again thwarting my ability to provide for other peoples and publics as appropriate and running out of my prized dish first. This plot began to sicken as it thickened, indeed.

3. Chaplain called his “dish” a peculiar name. Turns out that the first word of it happened to be the possessive form of his WIFE’S NAME. He’s unashamedly flaunting his fraudulent entry! Erroneous???? I think NOT!!!! Liar, liar, alleged God-fearing ass on fire! A man of the cloth should be held to higher standards than this, yes???? Who’s with me?

4. Everyone commented that the “dish” our Chaplain made tasted delicious, but the key ingredient, he admits, was scraped coconut and coconut milk, along with braised turkey thighs on the bone and lemongrass. Yep, sounds like a good ol’ ‘Murican classic chili dish to me. Belongs bubbling in a cast iron caldron steaming alongside a saddled up John Wayne, wild horses amidst blooming cacti in the background, tumbleweeds skimming the arid landscape, and the sound of boot spurs clinking toward the local saloon. What a masquerade.

5. Chaplain isn’t really a PhD of religious studies at all. It turns out that his wife did all of his course work and drafted his doctoral thesis for him, too.

Ok, so point #5 isn’t true, but he’ll sure be sorry when HR fires him after I start spreading the rumor that it is. 

So, what’s the conclusion to be drawn here? Well, my friends, all I can say is that next year, I won’t be caught with my crock pot cold and empty again. Mark my words: this isn’t the last chili I will be making and I certainly do not intend to go calmly into that good night and admit defeat. Justice WILL prevail and come ‘round again, as sure as the sun comes up at dawn o’er the wild blue yonder.