White Hot Porking...Adventures in Chili

I want to win something.  Anything.  And I want to do it without putting in much work or having much talent, and I want to beat nice people who are talented and hard-working.  I want to win just because I'm me, because the Universe has gazed objectively upon all of Creation and finds me dazzling, or at least competent, or at least pathetic enough to indulge.  I don't care. I just want to win.

So when I heard vague news of a FHSNA (Federal Hill South Neighborhood Association, although "neighborhood" should be in irony quotes, oh snap!) chili cook-off taking place south of CROSS STREET I thought, oh yes, I'm going to kill this despite never having made a decent chili in my life.  If I can get the courage to venture that far south of East Monty, I'm going to take that trophy from that befuddled granny and display it right in the heart of FHNA (Federal Hill Neighborhood Association) territory.

How do you win a field you have no experience in? You stand on the shoulders of giants, and you ride their coattails.

The Crue

Tara signed on right away but Alas! she also didn't know how to make chili.  Luckily, her friend Crystal had surreptitiously confiscated an award-winning family recipe from a certain boy - we were a trio oozing magic, Crystal with her "actual recipe" and "required ingredients," Tara with her "Kirk Gravy Technique" and me with "the wine."

Our chili was a creamy roux-based green chili, packed with slow-cooked pork, green chiles and jalapenos.  It looked like condensed mushroom soup but tasted amazing, at least I think it did because I was drunk on "the wine."

We figured we'd be one of 5 random people catering to 20 chain-smoking grandmas in a bingo hall.  Wow. Were we ever so so wrong.

Packed. And Everyone Had Their Teeth.

  We arrived 30 minutes early to find most stations already taken with chefs guarding bubbling crock pots and laying out crowd-pandering special accompaniments - thin dark chocolate slices, freshly made guacamole, Cheez Wiz. We looked at our own crock pot was full of stone-cold porridge. We frowned.

And then we found out the nice man sitting next to us was the head chef at Baba's Restaurant. And that 2 cooks from Bluegrass Tavern and Chef Lovelace were across the aisle.  We were out of our league and we knew it.

Smelling our weakness, a nice old lady from the table next to us gave us some guidance.

"What are you calling your chili, my dears?" she whispered, all gingerbread and lace.

"We haven't decided yet, but it's mostly pork and green chiles," we said in our most disarming voice.

"Well you'd better not name it Hot Porky because that's mine and I will fucking cut you little bitches*," she growled out of nowhere before offering a powdery smile and walking back to her seat.

(*that might not be an exact quote)

After she was out of earshot and knife-range, Greg quietly suggested we name it "Better Than Hot Porky" while I proffered "White Hot Porking" because, after all, it was a white chili.  

"How about "Whiter Than Mitt Romney White Chili?" said Greg, before quickly amending it, "How about "Whiter Than Mitt Fucking Romney White Chili?"

"I love it. Let's do it." I grabbed the marker and began.

"NOOOOO!!!!" shouted Greg in slow motion. "That's a bad idea."

We eventually settled on "White Lightning, Green Chili." 

The Crue with a real chef...unfair!

With that problem solved, Fate immediately slapped us back down in the form of a power outage.  Greg and Crystal carried the crockpot across the room and under a table to access some live juice.  Power returned shortly but the clock was ticking - people were already lining up and our chili wouldn't be fit to eat for another 30 minutes (although we started serving it after 15). 

Selling it the Mean Girl way

Tara and I had the first shift of chili-doling and although slightly shy and self-effacing at the beginning, by the time we handed off the torch we were selling it like Wells St professionals.

"This is a Mexican-style chili!  It's an old family recipe! (I pointed to my ethnic face) It has chiles verdes, marinated jalapenos, a touch of ancho and uses a pork base - it's a lot creamier and smoother than American chili,"  I said, exaggerating the Spanish words.

"Wonderful! I heard it was good!" replied the polite customers.

"Well you heard wrong. It's not good, it's AMAZING!" said Tara in a tone you wouldn't disagree with.

We sold it.  And when our shift was up, we went around the room schmoozing judges and attendees.  Again, like a Wells St professional, we sold it and we sold it some more.

Romney Mexicans...but SO much nicer!

Crytal and Greg had a different (honest) approach.  They didn't claim to be "Romney Mexicans," but rather smiled and joked and just behaved like the lovely people they are.  I was really proud when Crystal insinuated that the old family recipe had been part of the family from time immemorial and had crossed the Rio Grande in a covered wagon from Mexico.  I wish I had thought of that!

I was very grateful to our friends Michael & Chris Howarth and Tracey Schutty for voting for us as well as being super-fun company, excellent people and heroic Americans.  I am eternally non-grateful to non-friend Phil Schutty who voted for Chick Chili which sucked.

Waiting Hoping Wishing

Well, our chili turned out to be so popular - and we so generous - that we ran out 30 minutes before they announced the winners.  

We didn't win the Judge's Choice, which went to a cook at Bluegrass who grew the produce and 15 kinds of peppers in his backyard.  We didn't begrudge him, though, because his chili was crazy-awesome.

I have to say that I personally at least was a little pissed off when they announced the People's Choice.  And the winner was....HOT PORKY!?!?!  REALLY? That sounds like a porn title, and *not* a classy one.

7th Place (Not Bad Out of 20-something)

 

The Return of The Archnemesis

Picking out one special person to hate is a petty and shallow thing to do.  I accept and - dare I say it - embrace that I am a petty and shallow person - especially when I can harness my natural Power of Pettiness into making myself a better, thinner, more successful person.  For me, my pettiness is the ultimate renewable resource.

I've only really hated-hated two people in my life.  The first was Leah Schenone and I believe that the years 1998-2000 were spectacular for the simple reason that I had to be better at everything than Leah.  She was going to a party? I'd throw a spectacular party on the same day.  She was taking a history class? I'd win the university's history prize.  She'd start smoking? I'd start yoga, just to rub it in. Namaste, bitch.

Leah Schenone was a perfect archnemesis and hating her made me a better person.  When I found out her skateboard shop had failed, her husband had left her and she had been diagnosed with a rare bowel cancer I was genuinely disturbed.  Well, I did gloat a bit at the first two - but bowel cancer at 24? That's not really how I want to win. 

Since then I've had a dry spell on the archnemeses.  Surrounded by a supportive community and wonderful friends I have found nobody against whom to strive, to measure myself against, to loathe.  Until now.

Unhappily, and also happily, a disgusting bit of rotting porcine entrails in human form has recently infected my world with her existence.  I will call her "Ebola" because that is, in fact, what I do call her.

Despite the fact that she lives a scant block away, she mostly keeps to the back-alleys and gutters so I rarely see her.  This is great as it means I rarely lose my lunch at the mere sight of her but also deprives me of ways that I can be better than her.

I saw her on Saturday night, at the much-publicized Forgotten Cocktail Club, a speakeasy-style pop up which celebrates the lost art of prohibition-era mixology.  She slunk in with her generic "Bro" boyfriend about two hours after we arrived, and I noted with glee that I was in fact better looking, thinner, much better dressed and was having a much better time with my 10 closest friends. 

Having a much better time

Greg earned my undying admiration when he proclaimed, "Really? She's the one? That's disappointing...I mean she'd be okay-looking if she wasn't carrying that extra 25 pounds of ugly."

It was the meanest, and most perfect, thing I've ever heard.

In the end, it drove me to have an even more fantastic time than I normally would have.  As I glanced up periodically to see her spiteful little frog face staring out from dark corner of silence I felt even better about my pretty, witty friends and their handsome and funny husbands. We drank, we laughed, and we planned all of the fabulous things we would be doing in the coming weeks.

What did we have? The answer is YES!

 

You Drank WHAT?!?!

Living in Baltimore's Inner City spoils you.  We are accustomed to the very best, all the time - from the Alar-dripping produce seconds at Cross St Market to those Class 4 potholes that attract amateur spelunkers from as far away as Timonium...we have it all.  One memorable week we even had two dead bodies deposited within steps from our polished marble stoops!

But in our neighborhood, I find a certain emptiness that manifests itself as an ennui, a fog of lassitude that settles into the powdery cracks plunging it into a perpetual 4pm and rolls down properly-lined chimneys into sitting rooms (of course, the ennui that flows into unlined chimneys presents as crumbling plaster and water damage). 

After much transcendental meditation, the solution came to me.  We need caffeine.  And not just any caffeine, but the best caffeine in the world, from the best coffee in the world...coffee that comes from the best cats in the world, the wild civets of Malaysia.

Mmmm...I want to drink that.

These civets, Jungle Connoisseurs, eat only the very best coffee cherries and lay only the very best turds throughout the underbrush, which are picked up by bands of artisanal turd-pickers and the indigestible coffee beans are picked out by hand, roasted, and sold for $500 a pound.  It's a steal!

As I raced to my iMac to book a trip to...umm...the capital of Malaysia (note to self: check if Malaysia really exists/ has a capital) the Urbanite informed me that Zeke's Coffee had obtained a small quantity of this manna and was selling the brewed product for a scant $10 a cup.  We actually had to buy tickets online to drink this.  Timed tickets.  Like as if the David or King Tut were on tour.

"I'm sorry, it's only 8:57 and your ticket is CLEARLY for 9"

 At their roastery off a strip mall in Lauraville, we were assaulted with a dense aroma that was at once nostalgic and revolting...what was it?...oh yes, the smell of burnt toast and carbonized "toaster leavins'" - a familiar smell in the Figueroa household of yore.  Trying not to vomit in the Audi, the kids, Sean and I tumbled out and exchanged our timed ticket for a small cup of black coffee.  Although it seemed a meager portion, after a few sips it started to resemble a punchbowl.  How could I possibly choke down 6 whole ounces?

Blegh

 How did it taste? I would describe it as "liquid ick" with notes of "burnt toast" (although that might simply be the aromatic quality), peppered with some "blergh" and "I paid how much for this?"  A glance over at Sean's beatific smile indicated that I was alone in revulsion, probably caused by my plebeian palate.  I looked around the tables for allies-in-disgust but was met by nothing but the upper-middle-class glaze of dreamy Anglos, lapping at their cups of gut-processed (yet fair-trade) coffee.

I walked boldly over to the milk-and-sugar station, ignoring the sudden silence and horrified stares of the blissfully employable, when a goateed hipster clucked, "We...uhh...strongly recommend...that you drink it black."  "Well, then you obviously haven't tasted it," I replied snarkily.

Forced smiles

The sugar was scant help, and by the end I was bribing Julian with $1 if he would finish it.  He took one sip, said "I like the sugar" and gave it back while loudly announcing to our staring audience, "That is the best coffee I've ever had but I don't want to drink any more even for a dollar."

The Sycophantic Son

Tristan flat-out refused.  "That came out of some animal's booty and I'm NOT going to drink it and besides I don't even like coffee."

Tristan, speaking truth to power

 In the end (as it were), I don't think that the civet-processing really had much to do with my perception of the taste.  In truth, I don't care if you process those Malaysian beans through the belly of a golden unicorn, and it's then picked out by a sphinx and brewed by a leprechaun, Malaysian coffee still sucks.  Sucks sucks sucks.

Let this serve as a testament to those who might try to battle the boredom of affluence with a beverage from a rodent's nether-parts.  Just buy Zeke's Ethiopian Harare from Cross St Market.

Adventure Club! Consisting of Whoever, Devoted to Stuff.

New Year's Resolutions.

I love that this blog is all about Things I Suck At, because there are so many, many things I really, really suck at.  In fact, I daresay there's not a single field of human knowledge or behavior in which I am remotely competent.  I do, however, have a charming American tendency to 1) do it anyway 2) tell everyone how great I am 3) fail publicly 4) blame it on others 5) find something else, repeat.

However, I'm going to be better this year.  Next Christmas, God is going to give me the Most Improved Award and that is a fact. What accounts for my confidence? Because 2011 whimpered out with every aspect of my life deeply entrenched into the Foxholes of Mediocrity, a sort of concertina-wired No Man's Land between Total Suckdom and Mehville. If I can get one elbow out of that foxhole it will be a resounding victory, let alone if I can crawl entrails intact to the It's-A'ite Settlement.  That will be like D-Day right there.


When I discussed this with Megan and Shannon, Megan informed us that her New Year's Resolutions were "pretty much the same as everyone else's. Drink less. Go out less. Work more. Run more."

Shannon surprised us by countering, "No, mine are the opposite.  I work too much. I don't go out enough.  I need to drink *more* - I need to inject some adventure in my life.  I need to be less responsible."

Megan and I are great friends.  Because we want to support Shanon (and not because we are partygirl lushes looking for any opportunity to wake up in a gutter) we decide to form Adventure Club, an ad hoc club consisting of "whoever" and devoted to "stuff."

We decide to spend January 2nd communing with nature, in 35 degree weather.  I, of course, have a bum knee from a freak dog-on-dog skidding accident and no winter gear.  I was definitely the suckiest hiker but, again, I didn't spend the day re-reading Shogun in bed so I am the Life Improvement Winner. (And yes, as soon as we got home I jumped straight into bed and re-read Shogun)

Communing With Nature

Patapsco State Park

Avalon Trail

The most photogenic mold ever.

Penicillin for locavores

He is the King of this Bridge and he will shank you. Haha - no seriously he made a shank.

The Spartans of Adventure Club, and also Hunter's fleshy hindquarters

Why go to Ireland to see the jaw-dropping Newgrange when you can see this lackluster copycat outside of Baltimore?

Cost: $2 entry fee
Distance from house: 12.8 miles
Total Time: 2 hours