One of my favorite things about fall is Evans’ chili. He will usually make ten gallons at a time, which sounds excessive, but is not. We share it with family and friends and will freeze a few gallons, but we are ready for him to make it again within a month. He makes a meaty red chili with big chunks of onion and dark red kidney beans. It is the perfect fall food.
One of the highlights of the early fall in Crested Butte is the annual Chili and Beer Festival. Both professional and amateur cooks make chili and compete in a taste-off. Twenty-five area breweries and cideries compete for the best beer, cider, and ale.
In 2017, our first September in Crested Butte, we found out about the Chili and Beer Festival and bought last-minute tickets. Our friends Welch and Anne were visiting so we planned to go at noon. Evans and Welch went fishing that morning, and Evans fell and was swept downstream. By the time he recovered, was home, dry, and ready to eat chili, it was almost two o’clock. This is a popular party, so most of the chili was gone. I don’t drink beer, and cider gives me a blinding headache, but we enjoyed the party, the live music, and the atmosphere. What chili we did taste was not nearly as good as Evans’. He decided that he would compete the following year.
In 2018, our friend Welch was again in Crested Butte for The Chili and Beer Festival. I was back in Nashville for a wedding, but Evans and Welch have been a great team for over forty years. Evans cooked chili, and he and Welch served it with a good response. However, Evans learned that all the other contestants, even amateurs, had a more prominent presence. Their chili had a name. Their tables had decorations. So, the plan was to make the most of 2019.
In 2019, we made plans early. Evans named his chili Paradise Divide Red. We took pictures of Paradise Divide and made plans to have a banner made. We had a logo designed and ordered embroidered aprons and t-shirts. We went shopping and bought thirty pounds of ground beef, three flats of tomatoes and kidney beans. That night Evans’ sister called to let us know that his mother was gravely ill. Evans caught the first flight to Nashville, and I set about canceling orders and trying to find a home for thirty pounds of ground meat. Happily, the kind lady at the design shop agreed to hold our designs for the next year and did not charge us a kill fee. I joked about having thirty pounds of ground meat I needed rid of, and she offered to take it to feed the Gunnison High School Football team. It was a good solution, but no chili festival.
In 2020, well, everyone knows what happened in 2020. There wasn’t a chili festival.
But 2021 was going to be our year. Evans asked Welch to come, but he couldn’t. I was going to serve as the alternate chili assistant. We re-ordered the banner but decided maybe we didn’t need aprons and t-shirts. I ordered purple aprons from Amazon. We bought all the ingredients. Evans got out all his tools. We were ready.
On Friday, Evans began to cook. I stayed out of the way and offered to wash up. Our house smelled wonderful all day. He cooked from noon until after five. We each had a bowl of chili that night for dinner, and it was great. Because both pots would not fit in the refrigerator, he put the chili from one pot in Ziplock bags and put the other in the fridge.
On Saturday morning, he went downstairs to begin heating the chili. We were going to preheat it at home then keep it hot on gas burners at the festival. While he did that, I started getting ready. When I got out of the shower, I thought, “that doesn’t smell right.” I decided that chili just doesn’t smell good at 7:30 in the morning. As I was drying my hair, Evans came upstairs and said, “I’m out.”
The chili in the big pot did not cool overnight in the refrigerator, and it was bad. Ten gallons of meat, tomatoes, onions, and spices had turned exceedingly rancid. It isn’t that chili doesn’t smell good in the morning. BAD chili does not smell good in the morning.
There was nothing we could do. There wasn’t enough of the good chili to serve and no time to recreate what was ruined. Evans was devastated. I was heartbroken for him. How could something so good go so very bad so quickly?
He had tasted the bad chili, so I was convinced that he would have food poisoning. While he was crushed, I kept waiting for him to also throw up.
About 11:00, we started getting texts from friends saying, “Where are you?” We had to explain, in text, what had happened. We could hear the music from the band at the festival. We stayed home and watched the Vols lose. It was not a good day.
Once the chili had cooled, Evans threw it away in five kitchen trash bags, then in a lawn and leaf bag. Our dumpster locks to keep bears away, but I don’t think the hungriest bear would have tried to eat this. It was vile.
We had a neighbor over that night to have a bowl of the good chili. But after that, I froze what was left. Neither of us could face even the best chili for a while.
So, next year we are covering all the bases. Evans is going to make sure Welch has it on his calendar. We have decided he is the key to a successful chili festival. Evans has a plan to cook and freeze his chili in small batches to avoid a repeat of the rancid chili nightmare. I am, yet again, going to stay out of his way and offer to wash pots and serve the masses. We may also get our priest to come bless the chili pots to make sure that all the evil spirits of 2019, 2020, and 2021 have been banished.