Chili Madness (Or, How to Get a New England Presbyterian To Shout, "Yee-Haw!")

You want us to do what?

My church had begun partnering with a ministry at the nearby university, and the campus minister was looking for someone to organize a lunch to welcome students at the beginning of the school year. My family and I had traveled out West not long before, and had visited a church on the Sunday of their annual Chili Cook-Off. The event was more fun than any church potluck we’d ever attended. My husband and I knew we needed to introduce to this little slice of Wild West fun to our congregation back home so, when it came time to organize the welcome back event, I pitched the idea.

As I began describing the concept to folks in my church I was met, almost universally, with quizzical looks and blank stares. Without a single word, the expressions on my fellow church members’ faces betrayed unspoken heartfelt objections:

“We’re New Englanders. We eat clam chowder.”

“And we’re Presbyterians. Why would we do that?”

“Trust me,” I told them. “It’ll be fun.”

And I don’t even like chili.

One of the moms said she didn’t think the idea would work because her family didn’t like chili. She asked if she could bring a crockpot full of macaroni and cheese instead. I said, “Sure. As long as you give it some kind of chili name, you can bring anything you want.”

She called her entry, Meatless, Beanless, Cheesy, Noodle Chili.

One of the perks of being the instigator for events at my church is that I get to make up rules as I go. And, of all the events I’ve ever organized for the church, Chili Cook-Off is by far the easiest. (Just don’t tell them that. They think I work really hard at it.) I buy a whole bunch of cornbread from the bakery at the local supermarket, some really big bags of salad and some dressing; and sour cream, cheddar cheese, chips, and salsa. I ask folks from the congregation to sign up to bring salad ingredients (whatever vegetables are threatening to overrun their gardens) and twelve packs of soda, juice, or water. I either order a cake for dessert or have someone pick up ingredients to make ice cream sundaes.

Chili, obviously, is the main dish on the menu. Each year I get roughly two dozen people to enter, competing for top honors in the categories, of hottest, most unusual, and best overall chili. I ask folks to bring their chili in crockpots which are then placed on tables lining the walls in the fellowship hall. The first year we tried this event, I was a little afraid that plugging them all in at the same time might cause the power grid on the eastern seaboard to shut down.

For some reason, the men in my church always seem to be the first to sign up for Chili Cook-Off. Perhaps it’s because competition is hard-wired into their DNA, or maybe it’s because they think playing with hot, spicy chili peppers is manly, the men seem eager to show off their culinary chops. Those who attend Chili Cook-Off have the opportunity to sample a wide variety of offerings. There are spicy chilies and mild ones; vegetarian and venison and wild turkey chilies; ones made with beans, and ones made without. We’ve had Texas-style, Cincinnati-style, and sweet, southern chili. One year we even had a gumbo-style oyster chili.

Naming one’s chili seems to have turned into its own form of competition. Recent titles have included: Cry Twice Chili, Dragon’s Breath, The Heat of the Moment, Poultry Gone Wild, Deacon Harmon’s Hellfire and Brimstone Chili, and Jazzy Giraffe Chili. I was assured no giraffes were harmed in the making of that last one. This year, I awarded a special judge’s discretion honor to our church’s new campus minister for his entry, The Reflux Capacitor.

Because we are a congregation of Presbyterians we like to do things decently and in order, except on Chili Cook-Off Sunday. Although the names of the chili makers are kept confidential, quite a bit of lobbying, bribery, and arm-twisting takes place during the event. Some folks decorate their chili display areas, trying to entice people to sample their chili.

I hear tales of ballot-stuffing, toward which I turn a blind eye. The award for best overall chili always seems to go to the chili maker having the largest family in the congregation. The past couple of years, however, I decided to exercise sovereign rule over the contest, awarding “The Clean Spoon” recognition to the chili maker whose crockpot was cleaned out first. The objective, as I remind everyone, is to have fun and feed as many college students and fellow church members as simply as possible.

We have been doing Chili Cook-Off for five years now and, unless I decide to hightail it to the Wild West hill country, I may be organizing this event for years yet to come. Folks have started dressing up in Stetsons, bandanas, and cowboy boots. I wander around in and my flashing chili pepper necklace making sure folks are getting enough to eat, introducing themselves to the students, and periodically shouting, “Yee-Haw!” We listen to cheesy cowboy music, give away prizes like bottles of sarsaparilla and rolls of antacids, and laugh ourselves silly.  This past year, I made the elders wear sheriff badges so the students would be able to identify those in church leadership. Actually I asked them and they agreed, because I’m sort of big and scary, and they’ve pretty much given up on getting me to run off and join the Methodists.

And while I may make jokes about being a Presbyterian, and do ridiculous things like making the elders wear sheriff badges, I'm quite serious about my love for my church. There my soul has been nourished throughout my adult life by the thoughtful and careful exposition of God’s word. The men behind those silly badges are serious ones who love Christ and His church, and who are committed to her peace and purity. It is my privilege to introduce college students to this body of fellow believers, whether I like chili or not.

Can somebody out there give me a “Yee-Haw"?

(Chili banner and cheesy cowboy music, provided by my two-headed brother Chaz)

Joining Laura at The Wellspring: