Chili Ain’t No Picnic

Saturday evening, we had a chili picnic.

Yes, it was for the small children.  Yes, I said “chili” and “picnic” together, as in, we had a picnic with chili, inside.  I have indeed not been evaluated for psychosis, but might agree with you that I was a little out of my mind with that idea.

Oh, and did I mention that our family room carpet is (was) off-white (again, one of my good-at-the-time ideas…)?  Brilliant plan, I tell you.  Brilliant.  It started with us inviting a couple of people over to watch the 49ers-Saints game.  I was going to make some chili anyway, and David absolutely loves the Niners, and, well, it’s the playoffs.  See, my dear husband has this propensity to follow teams that are based absolutely nowhere near where he lives.  His argument when I tease him about it is that it gives us an excuse to travel to watch the teams play.  And I’d be cool with that if that actually meant we were jetting back to northern California every year to do so.  But no, we’re not.  What I got to do was visit Detroit–DETROIT–for a weekend for a hockey game.  It was actually my idea–I surprised him with tickets a few years ago because he’d always wanted to see Joe Louis Arena, and I didn’t realize the level of dismal-ness that is that city in March.  Who ever says, “Man, I really want to see Detroit some day?” or “You know what’s on my bucket list? Detroit.  I can’t wait to see Detroit!”  But that’s love.  David loves the Red Wings (I know, I know), I love David…

So, back to the chili picnic.  We do family room picnics during Notre Dame games in the fall if the Irish are playing around dinnertime.  We set up a blanket on the floor, bring down the kids’ food and their sippy cups and a pile of napkins, and let them have a jolly old time while we don’t miss any second of what most likely is a terrible game.  And the picnic works well with, say, pizza, or cheese and fruit.  So I didn’t think anything of it when we brought down little kid-sized bowls of chili, and cheese, and sour cream, and cornbread and let the kids have at it.  And even as I type that last sentence, I wonder, what were you THINKING?

All I have to say is that Saoirse likes order.  When she builds with her blocks, the creations must stay perfectly in line for days.  She still lines up her cars on the playroom floor.  She harbors programs and ticket stubs from activities we attend and keeps them in an organized pile on her dresser for months.  So Chili Picnic isn’t so bad when it comes to our oldest.  She sits primly, finishes her food while watching the game, and politely asks for dessert.  The Mighty, on the other hand, decided to do her best Godzilla Saturday night.  All I have the strength to tell you about that hour is this:

• 2 1/2 bowls of chili into one tiny stomach
• 1/2 bowl of chili onto one tiny stomach
• one cup of milk, spilled upon blanket and rug and carpet
• two pieces of cornbread, wielded like boxing gloves, delightedly swung about as a toddler raced up to her mother to excitedly tell her that she was “eaaaat fooooood!”
• four separate piles of spilled vegetarian chili
• Woolite carpet and upholstery cleaner
• a large glass of wine (mine)
• legs completely turned-reddish brown, especially after same toddler sat in her dish
• a bath