It's the chili.
Chili parlors are what made the state famous and no, it wasn't the Red-Legs or Larry Flynt, or the Shakers; it's a bowl of soupy, meaty, cinnamon tinted, burnt brown, bean-less gravy that's commonly served on spaghetti. That's right, chili on noodles. Throw away any hint of culinary reason. Toss it into the deep-end of the Ohio river. Your Sicilian mother will be flabbergasted. Your uncle from Juarez will scratch his head. Chili after all, is meant to be eaten out of a bowl with Tabasco those little, fishy crackers, or on a hot dog. Its Santa Fe meets Mulberry Street in Little Italy. Is this gastric anomaly a short-lived fad brought from some desperate, depression era kitchen? Just ask Skyline, Gold Star, or Dixie chili. Wait, they're too busy, their joints are packed. Want a three-way (we all do) but in Ohio, it means Chili with Spaghetti and cheese. A four-way adds onions, and a five-way get's beans thrown on top. A six-way adds the kitchen sink and a seven-way gets anything not listed
Everyone Thinks it's Ridiculous
Don't send this chili to any other part of the country. They'll hate it and ridicule you. People don't get it. This is something completely unique to a state that prides itself on meat and potatoes. Remember buckeye boys and girls, this chili contains cinnamon and allspice and cloves. Who the hell puts cinnamon in their Chili? Cinnamon is meant for cookies and cakes and those gooey morning rolls, but not a man's-man dish. You fart from this chili and it smells like a cupcake. It's not thick, the meat is ground to a fine puree and it's got the whup-ass of sunflower seeds. No, you will never please anyone who's from the southwest, or particularly anyone from Italy. Chili on mama's pasta, fogetaboutit!
Hold Your Head High
There is a reason to go to Ohio and it's certainly not to look for work or to support a winning sports franchise. There is, and are, none. I would have suggested Ohio State, but it looks like their football program cheated, so scratch that. No, stick with the chili. Slurp it up. You're bound to wear it but walking around Cincy or Cleveland with brown stains on your shirt is the equivalent of wearing Buckeye Red or Bengal Orange, or "I Hate LeBron" t-shirts. So eat the chili on spaghetti. It's the Midwest version of Pasta Fra Diavolo. It says, I'm my own man, I'll eat what I damn well please and I'm gonna go to Ohio to get it.
Kelly Bowlin is a freelance writer based in Los Angeles and is the author of 2 novels and 26 short stories. He writes a column for the Comic Bible in New York and holds a Bachelors Degree in Finance from Cal Poly Pomona.
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