A chili dust-up;
water leaks and spiderlings

By Bebe and Sissy Fenstermaker

We ran into bad chili last night. We tried to be nice about it but finally gave that up and went home. We were at an "everybody bring a dish" affair and, unbeknown to us, there had been some chili boasting at the planning stage. The result was about six crock-pots full, lined up and down a long table waiting for the verdict. My call was instant on visual inspection but to be fair I tasted. The outcome: the HEB tamales (red alert warning!) were better off with nothing on them. I took a dab of turkey chili to Sissy to taste. As her eyes bulged, I said I just thought she ought to know. It was sweet; there was no mistaking the use of sugar. It was light reddish, had a little ground turkey in it, and lots of sugar. All the other pots held versions of ground beef, tomatoes, beans, and bell pepper in mild, sweet chili powder broth. I can't begin to believe anyone thinks chili powder mix makes chili, and that's not even starting on the "creative" added ingredients.
Okay, yes, I am a purist when it comes to chili. I have a right to be because I have had some of the best in the world. Just like the realization that, after traveling the world, seeing the stars and whatever else blows the mind, right here at home is a special place, that is how I feel about chili. It's easy to say that home chili is best because one is used to it, but around this part of Texas, it is the best. Ingredients, along with a knowledgeable hand, make good chili. South Texas has both. I do not understand using powdered mixes when we all live near grocery stores with literally cascading banks of fine chiles in the vegetable sections. I can't go down that aisle without pulling over to inhale. Chiles range in flavors and fire and there are enough varieties to experiment with to find one's preference. I love anchos, pasillas, New Mexican, piquins, and chipotles. Sometimes I use just pasillas, sometime a whole lot of chipotle, or just anchos. Tiny chile pequins grow on the west side of the Big Room here at the Ranch; the birds plant them. Pequins are always in our chili and we put them in frijoles. The kind of chiles I use depends on weather, temperature, fragrance, what's in the chile jar, many things. The Maverick Ranch law about chili is hard and fast -- made from scratch and from dried chiles. Anything else is just playing around with food.
I was teaching at Sul Ross in Alpine the year of the second Terlingua Chili Cook-off. I was invited to go but something made me ask about the chili made the year before. How did they make it generally? Well, there was a big debate about whether or not it should have beans in it, but everyone agreed that there should be tomatoes. I didn't go. That is not chili, it's tomato soup. (Regarding chili with beans, that is a lazy person's meal, too lazy to cook frijoles like they should be cooked.) Anyway, I knew the best chili, frijoles, enchilada, and taco chef in the world wouldn't be there. She would be in Marfa, just 50 miles away, and most of those people would never taste her fare.
Carolina Borrunda had no time for Terlingua that weekend for sure. She scoffed at the silliness, bean debates, and baloney (bet there was some of that in their "chili"). Carolina ran the Old Borrunda Café on Highway 90 on the east end of town. For more than 50 years she cooked delicious suppers on her old wood stove, ordered her ground chili from Hatch, New Mexico, and served it all in a simple white dining room which was part of her adobe home. Her slender, tightly rolled chicken tacos were to die for. Her enchiladas were flat, with chili sauce, onions, and cheese loaded on top. Many of the locals ordered a fried egg added to the tip-top of the pile. (We didn't know a rolled-up enchilada existed until we moved into San Antonio.)
My other favorite chili cook is Sissy, whose creation makes the morning ranch egg sing in red glory. She listened to folks who were telling how to make chili right and hers is powerful and full of flavor. Sometimes she adds roasted wild hog to make a meat chili.
Last night's food was plain scary. The truth about that meal is that the cooks were from the Midwest and Northeast. Poor things, they grow up with sugar in everything they eat, vegetables, meat, salad. They move here, get a little headwind up, and think they can make chili like a native, only better. "Get a little of that ah-SUUU-car in there and it will make those natives realize what they've been missing." No, hon, doesn't do a thing for me, and please don't call it chili. If you can't take the time to make real chili or even try, please stay way, way outta this kitchen.

Bebe Fenstermaker

I just hate to find water leaks when I'm checking out other things in the yard. They appear as great gooey patches of mud and in areas where I had no clue a pipeline existed. The latest leak was certainly in an area that left me baffled. Even Bebe was puzzled. Manuel, who can fix anything, dug into the wettest spot. He found a pipe and the leak, sure enough. However, upon exposing the end of it, he saw that it was sealed shut. So, where was the water coming from that was leaking from the pipe? We looked around and dug into any memories we might have of plumbing done by those who came before us. Manuel and Bebe figured out the mystery. The waterline dated from when the Frommes got their water from the spring. The line ran from the springhouse to the faucet at the backdoor of the house. Evidently, with all the rains we have had for the last two summers, the spring level rose and overflowed into the pipe. How long the leak had existed I couldn't say, since it was in an area I don't often travel.
On a windy day back in early November Bebe and I parked next to a tree at the grocery store. She asked me what "that little bird" was jumping around in the tree about. "Why, it's eating something," she next exclaimed, before I had even caught sight of it. We both stared hard at the tree and saw other little birds behaving similarly. We never could see just what they were jumping about for and catching. Whatever it was, they were having a feast. Later that evening I was listening to a weather forecast, only to learn what those birds were up to. Evidently, at that time of the year the young of certain spider species, called spiderlings, migrate. He said they trail a bit of web, which the wind catches, carrying them for miles. I researched "migrating spiderlings" on the computer for more information and discovered that once they "hatch," spiderlings immediately climb onto an object, a blade of grass, a branch, or whatever. They send out some silk, one end still attached to the abdomen. If there is any air movement it will lift the spiderlings, carrying them aloft, sometimes for miles, before the silk attaches to something. This dispersal or migration is called "ballooning." The weatherman also referred to the phenomenon as "gossamer," and when looking up that word I found an account by John McPhee. His research allowed that the strands of silk are called "gossamer." He also found that most orb-weaving spiders and a few others are the ones "flying through space." They can sometimes fly thousands of miles, and frozen bodies of spiderlings have been found in the upper atmosphere that revived upon being warmed up. It is thought that some of those frozen bodies may have been up there for thousands of years. The thinking is that some of the spiderlings found in that frozen state may be thousands of years old.

Sissy Fenstermaker