The Chili
My neighbor shared some of her chili with me this week. She occasionally makes big pots of soups and such and shares them around, which is very generous and one of the few perks of being her neighbor.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s very kind. Unfortunately, she’s also the very definition of the “oblivious Boomer” stereotype. We’ve had a couple issues with her aggressive dog not being leashed. I also made the mistake early on of agreeing to hold on to a package of hers that was going to arrive while she was away for the weekend; this one-time assistance turned into years of me receiving a text message within five minutes of every Amazon or Kohls package that arrived while she wasn’t home, even if she was going to return within 45 minutes. This was not helped by the fact that she owns two homes and is only here half the time. Some Christmases I wheelbarrowed loads of boxes to her door. She laughed and called me Santa. If I was Santa that wheelbarrow would have been filled with coal.
Again, it’s not all bad. She’s given us advice on home maintenance. She’s power washed our siding a few times, just because she was already doing hers. And there’s the chili. The chili is a nice surprise.
I have to say, though. I don’t know what went wrong with the chili this year. But it smells like farts. It doesn’t just smell bad; it smells like literal ass.
It tastes fine! I’ve eaten three servings already! But dear lord, none of her other batches had the overpowering aroma of a mushy, uncovered litter box offering. I take the lid off the container, it smells like farts. I put the bowl in the microwave, it smells like hot farts. I shovel spoonful after spoonful into my mouth, the only thought in my head being “this is good, but god it smells like farts”.
It’s an apt metaphor for our relationship. Anyway, I still have one serving of chili left, and boy I can’t wait for it to be gone.