The only fingers in here are mine

For my last meal, I'd like a basin of Wendy's chili, with a deep, long-necked spoon.

There are other things I could ask for, too. Grilled sardines with fennel and a squeeze of lemon. Ile flottante lazily lounging on a pool of crème anglaise. Oysters swimming in a heavy cream nage. Rabbit with mustard sauce. Thai boullaibaise. There are many dishes that I hold dear to my heart, that excite me like arriving in the grand exhibit room of a museum.

But Wendy’s chili… is that a tacky admission? I am sure I am not slumming. I am not trying to make myself feel better, a bourgeois too-little-too-late guilt trip after sneering at things like Lipton tea bags and American cheese.

Being a "foodie" is not all truffles and champagne. Somewhere along the line, you realize that not have you outgrown certain foods, but now you look down on them-- foods and preparations that you used to love and that used to bring you great joy. For me, perhaps I am better for forgoing my afternoon snack of powdered Country Time lemonade. Or an evolving my taste of mushrooms and pumpkin pie to hate to appreciation to affection. It is a good thing that I can walk into a grocery store and pick up what is fresh and good and well-priced.

But this isn't all personal neuroses. And when you're a foodie, people are sometime surprised when you pick up a bottle of Heinz ketchup. Who knows though. When I admit that I don't know what marjoram is used for, or how exactly lentils are grown and harvested, is it me who makes me feel ashamed? Or am I being shamed? Eh, probably the former. (Must Wikipedia marjoram...)

Wendy's chili does no such thing as bring me to a "simpler time." That oversells how complex my life is now, and undersells the complexity of the chili itself. Never do I realize the magic of Wendy's chili until I try to make my own. I've made meat-based chilis, would-be replicas of the classic. The anatomy of the chili is as such: It’s soupy and sweet. The meat isn’t crumbly like a burger, but more pasty, like a paté. There are a good amount of beans, but that depends day to day. Sometimes I lift the lid and am greeted by a mountain rising boldly from the surface. And other times, the top is serene.

But whenever I tried to make chili, it never works out. Wendy’s chili is runny, while mine is inevitably thick. There are things you cannot expect. Beans absorb a lot of liquid, a skin-splitting amount. Celery goes limp. Paprika comes out tasting somehow sweet yet metallic.

So usually when I make chili, it's not cut form the same culinary cloth as Wendy's chili. It's usually vegetarian, but hearty-- lots of beans, lentils. Sometimes, if I'm craving some more umami, I add fish sauce. No, not the traditional chili...

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Note: This is not to mean that I am living another life, apart from my foodie-snob one. But you can try me, if you dare.