The heat didn’t work in our apartment at all. It was dropping down into the forties, and I was wearing a coat and hat to bed. As I felt death approaching, I knew something had to be done. And then I knew.
I had to make some fucking chili.
It was the only answer! What else is substantial, warm, gooey, and filled with all of your favorite things shamelessly mixed together and topped with gobs of cheese? NOT MANY OTHER THINGS!
When it comes to chili, I have always maintained pride in being a purist. No recipe. Just me, a pot, and several cans of shit that I pour in in quick succession then wait for the slow simmer and aroma coma. I barely know what I put in, honestly, pulling all manner of cans out of the pantry and opening them in a non-discriminating manner. Thus, yesterday I found myself snacking upon a can of crushed pineapple while throwing the following into a cauldron:
AND THAT IS IT. That is ALL you have to do! I don’t understand why the human race isn’t constantly engaged in the act of making and consuming chili. It really doesn’t make sense to do otherwise. So you know what to do. Go forth and simmer, my friends.