Uncle Phil's Savory Brown Cincinnati Chili

I arrived at work this morning to find a very special belated Christmas gift from my coworker Phil. Fresh off his trip to Cincinnati, Phil brought us back some canned chili that must have some sort of magical powers or something, 'cuz if there is a man who knows his chili, it's Phil.



Skyline chili, all the way from Ohio. The chili so nice, you shit it twice!


Wow! Now that is some fine lookin' chili, son. I smacked my lips as thick, glistening globs of browned meat dribbled down the inside of the lid.


Usually I think of chili as having huge, gelatinous chunks, but this chili was special. It was like looking at a calm, glassy lake of raw umber glimmering in the sun.


I schlorped the whole can into a bowl and awaited the sound of the microwave timer with bated breath.


Now chili just isn't complete without some hot and fresh brats waiting for a good, thunderous slatherin'.


Unfortunately the chili made a mess of my microwave (I should have covered it)), but oh heavens yes! How can you resist that hot, saucy meat snap? You can't, that's how.


And fire rained down on the valley of the meatened frank, dislodging it from its tenuous grasp on the igneous plane. The towering, roiling, living wall of liquid and solid flesh swept clean the valley floor on its fateful path to sunless core of the vaporous acid mines. There, where meat and ground sinew met a cataclysmic, polyprotic demise, a ghastly mephitis spewed forth, scorching animal, mineral, and vegetable alike. There was not a scream. There was not a gasp. Not another breath was drawn. This was how it ended. This was how it began.