Now, the seculars may laugh. They may say things like “What? That’s definitely not a word.” or “You’re insulting organized religion with this stupid article.” I assure you, the chilisperience is very real and it’s life-changing.
A chilisperience is experiencing the miracle of eating the best chili. In your life. Now, when you first hear the angels sing it can be a bit overwhelming. But then the heat of the chili envelops your gut and a food-coma smile creeps across your face and you know all’s well. The chili will never steer you wrong. The chili loves you. The chili loves all.
I knew the chili of my salvation was special before I tried it. It was made by this gal I’m seeing, and I was aware of the immense measures she went to in order to concoct it. There were spices she toasted (how they managed not to clog up the toaster, I’ll never know). Herbs she hand-ground (probably with rocks of Galilee). There was chocolate in the chili! But even this knowledge could not prepare me for what was to come.
How does one describe beauty? Sure, I could say there was nary a bean in sight. I could wax poetic about the glorious chunks of beef and the complex dark-brown sawce. I could speak of the hidden beauty, those spices and ingredients I knew were there, I could taste, and yet could not see. But all I can truly say is that this chili was beautiful.
Upon dumping enough white cheddar onto the chili to create a perfect little mound, I scooped up a spoonful and indoctrinated myself. My body immediately froze. My tongue’s soul jumped out and swam around in the flavors. I exited my body and my third eye — my chili eye, if you will — opened to see the inner secrets of the universe. Secrets that I neither understood nor could retell. It was a transcendental experience. My thoughts collapsed to single words. Rich. Smoky. Meat. Spice. Happy. I returned to my body and looked down to see a raging chili boner. My roommate dry-heaved and left the apartment. The poor heathen just couldn’t see the light.
Having lapped up the final drop, I collapsed into a blissful slumber. After realizing I just had my chilisperience, I knew my life would never be the same. I knew the chili loves all, and will never bring harm to this world. I also knew that I had to make this g**damn chili for the world to try.
Obtaining the sacred recipe was surprisingly easy. I thought I’d have to undertake an Indiana Jones-level quest for a thousand-year old scroll. Instead, I was forwarded a link. I did my due diligence obtaining the ingredients: cumin, coriander, whole dried chilis, unsweetened chocolate and the like. I did my best following all the nuances of the recipe: toasting the whole coriander seeds, hand-grinding the cumin, adding the masa harina even though I don’t know what the f*!# that is, whispering sweet nothings to the beef to tenderize it.
Hours (maybe days) later my chili was ready. I was ready. It was time to indoctrinate the next person. I was going to spread the good news of the chili. My roommate was the obvious choice. Much like the wafer-thingy Catholics do, I insisted feeding her the first spoonful. Her eyes widened. Her body froze. Then she started dry-heaving and left the apartment. Sure, I had my dried guajillo chiles in order. But my metaphysical ingredients were lacking. I tried to add “love for humanity” but the best I could muster was “general indifference to most.” Instead of kindness I added “passive-aggressive digs at your outfit.” I failed the chili. But the chili forgives. I will try again. Pray for my roommate.
If you want to try the chili, here’s the recipe.