Sundays with Evan: 85 and Chili

Last year’s Chili Cookoff was an exceptionally wonderful time. Co-workers and I gathered at my house early for pre-fest drinks and bag toss, filled water bottles to the brim with jack and Coke, and enjoyed the cool weather with a warm buzz, and some hot and flavorful chilis. Now let’s fast-forward 365 days, spin 180 degrees and this year’s event was a completely different experience. Apparently, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and promptly put on my crabby pants, because there wasn’t an ounce of pep in my step all day. Lethargic and pissy. . . everything my soon to be arriving guests would surely embrace and love.Luckily, my guests double as really good friends and the first to arrive was the one least likely to put up with my shit. Bruce is a man’s man, the guy you want in your corner when things go wrong, but also the phone call you make when you’re looking for an ear and a beer.  He always has a keg on tap, a chilled bottle of Gentleman’s Jack, and a pool that’s a savior in August.  His arrival came complete with bourbon, a Molson filled Victory growler, and a competitive game of bag toss.78 degrees.

Toss a bag, take a swig, and commence forehead sweat.

“Man it’s hot,” I mutter while shedding layers from my tragically hip fall fatigues.

Next, accomplished home brewer and invaluable neighbor Mark Ross arrives with homebrew in hand.  The night before, I had celebrated his latest brewing effort and micro masterpiece, RossTire XE.  Mark took his experience along with some trial and error of a previous brew clone of New Belgium’s “Fat Tire” and turned things up to 11 with an XE (eXtra Enebriated) tag at the end.  By increasing the amount of malt used while getting the yeast to “get it on” three full days before he pitched it. This resulted in an ABV that went from 5.5% to an “OMG, I did what???” 7.1%.  But, what good is a punch without some weight behind it, and what a heavy weight he added indeed.  By tossing in a ¼ oz Chinook “Hop Tea” while boiling the priming sugar, he was able to add an extra bitter knockout to the silky smooth, malty caramel train my taste buds were riding down to funky town.

82 Degrees.

Cheers with beers, stomach growling, sweat soaked pits.

“It’s soooooo hot; I’m going to toss on some shorts,” declares Mark, while I defiantly and uncomfortably scoff at the idea in my ultra chic corduroys and cardigan (i.e. I looked ridiculous at this point).

It wasn’t long before we all found ourselves proceeding up Gay Street toward a wall of chili starved humans.  A dense hoard squeezed into what little room was already available between funnel cake trucks, tents, and some lady desperately trying to sell me Bare Minerals. Somewhere between the mild heat stroke I was experiencing, and a wicked onset of anxiety that makes my head feel like helium balloons on a string, my perception of everything began to rot.  All those happy little patrons morphed into chili consuming zombies.

*NOM NOM NOM* chomp, spit, drool.

83 Degrees.

*NOM NOM GULP* push, grab, eat.

84 Degrees.

OHHHHH BRAAAAAINS errr CHIIIIILI!!!!!!!

85 Degrees.

I couldn’t take it: the suffocating crowed, a stomach compacted with delicious chili, and the irritating couple that repeatedly drove their baby loaded stroller into my shins.  Pair this with rising temperatures and a wardrobe that felt like a Hefty bag—my vision became blurred and bright white.  Instantly, I began to experience flashbacks of the last time this perfect storm came together.

I was 10 years old at the Somerset Collection in beautiful Troy, MI.  I had fainted face down beside a Sunglass Hut kiosk. Some would say I was just a pudgy boy overwhelmed by the prospect of the delicious Sea Salts that lay some 15’’ feet away from my tiny hands at the Sur La Table. Others proclaim I was hungry, flushed, and just naturally feeling faint in an overwhelming crowd. Regardless of opinion, as that fateful feeling began to consume me, I knew escaping from the Chili Fest was my only option.

This time around, I successfully reached the couch and buried my face into its asphyxiating orange tweed fabric.  And while I snoozed the afternoon away, my guests reveled in mass consumption of chili and good times. And so, let us give thanks to Mr. Ross for providing the potent home brew that ignited this personal downward spiral, and to Bruce for poking me while I was comatose only to later reveal at work that, “I completely thought you were dead dude, so I left as to not get caught up in any of that . . . ya know?” No Bruce . . . I don’t know . . .