Not Quite Chili, Not Quite Spaghetti
Reflecting on the splendor that was my grandmother’s cold-weather cooking.
I spent half the year trying to remember.
I pictured myself,
Smaller,
Sitting at the old, blue table —
Watching you,
Listening to WBBM780.
It started with the spices.
What the hell was the brand?
It continued with the pressure cooker,
Your bases,
Your onions,
The beef.
It lasted for weeks
in that big, white container.
It wasn’t quite spaghetti,
It met where chili peaked.
It went well with saltine crackers,
It melted my cheddar cheese.
To me,
It defined every autumn in Chicago.
I don’t know what to call it.
I don’t know how to make it.
I recall the kidney beans,
The pasta,
The densely packed ratio o’meat —
The nice little black bowls
that couldn’t go in the microwave.
To me,
It was the soothing warmth
of your loving home
and fussing —
because once again, I didn’t have my footies on.
It needed nothing else,
and no one spoke a word.
There was no room
between bites of twenty-star goodness.
I spent half the year trying to remember.
I chewed off your daughter’s ear.
Nobody can make it
And we can’t ask,
’cause you’re no longer here.
Spice Supreme: Chili Powder, Cumin, Onion Powder.
