Bobby's Chili

OK, so I was trolling Facebook earlier today, and found a status update from my buddy Bobby, that I found interesting/funny/blog-worthy. Now Bobby's real name is Michael, and we worked together about 50 years ago. And then, one day, a process-improvement consultant-chick came into our little hospital aiming to make our stuff "run better." She had an MBA and an Ann Taylor suit, so clearly she knew more than any of us who toiled in Operations on a daily basis. The only problem was (OK, she had a coupla problems) she could never get anyone's name right. She was the type of person that would call you-up-one-side-and-down-the-other-but-never-quite-get-your-name-right as if in justified confirmation that her existence was more important than yours. So, naturally, in public ridicule of her cognitive tic, Michael dubbed me KiKi, and I called him Bobby.

Now Bobby's wife, Brooke (I suddenly feel very bad that she does not have a nickname) and I became friends about 35 years ago. She has been incredibly supportive, always willing to listen and give sage advice, and she is a fabulous stylist who is the sole reason my hair rocks so hard. The two of them have been great friends to me, and they have 2 adorable little boys, the youngest of which I am still trying to finagle a way to kidnap because he is the most delicious child to ever live. Really. They also have a really great relationship story that I admire and respect and may in fact tell someday, given adequate movie rights and royalty payment dealios.

But, I digress. Bobby's post made me laugh tonight because he stated that he won the chili cook-off at work. Now, a chili cook-off at work is a highly suspect arrangement, because I for one, have a documented aversion to a buffet of any kind, let alone one that sits out all day long, and is prepared using crock-pots, hot-plates and hunting coolers. I have done my best to eliminate the "pot-luck-lunch" in my department because there are only so many varieties of off-brand Doritos and Mexicali dip that a person can tolerate, plus I see these people, I see their desks, and I cannot imagine their home kitchen/funky blue rolling Igloo are any more sanitary. The whole thing gives me the willies, and, hey, I'm the boss, so too bad for them--they can go work for Radiology if having pasta frittata for Shirley's birthday is so freakin' important.

Best of all, Bobby's big win took place in a hospital. In addition to the first place award, I wonder if he could he have picked up a nod for "Best Use of Stuff Leftover in the ER," or maybe "Most Likely to Send You to the GI Lab on Thursday." Perhaps even my personal favorite, "Oh, Sure, Those May Look Like Beans..." The possibilities are endlessly adolescent and thoroughly enjoyable.

But seriously, I gotta give props to a dude who cooks well enough for public consumption, let alone win first prize. If I totaled up all of the meals that guys have prepared for me in my lifetime, I'd have a bowl of Froot Loops, a nearly-raw chicken kebab, and 4 very sketchy taquitos that I strongly believe were not made from scratch. Kudos Bobby! And I will love you even more if you promise not to offer me the leftovers...