Winter in these parts has already been quite long. I fully recognize that patience is one of the seven virtues. I suffered from chronic narcolepsy during my days at a (hereunto unnamed) prestigious finishing school, so I forget most of the other six. Recollection through a haze of dementia is forever challenging, but I think the remaining morsels of rectitude went like this- be nice to your neighbors, eat chili on Sundays, and always shoot the messenger. Oh yeah, and one more- ignorance is bliss. The logic sets up perfectly and the solution is elegantly simple- shoot the messenger before the bad news breaks, hence you’ll remain naïve to missive, and BANGO- bliss ensues. The translation is elementary- if that rat-bastard groundhog is planning to drop the 411 that we have six more weeks of winter staring us in the snoot, he has another thing coming. February 1st is now national groundhog chili day.
Sadly, no groundhog was willing to submit to becoming chili365’s most recent blog entry. Cowards. I hope hawks pick them off the moment they stick their filthy, rodent noses above ground. I did, however, find some rabbit in the freezer:
1 lb rabbit meat, cut into small chunks
½ C jiffy baking mix
1T chili powder
½ t garlic salt
½ Mexican oregano
Melt butter and use it coat rabbit bits.
Mix remaining ingredients to form coating.
Coat buttered rabbit.
Bake 1 hour at 350F.
(I may have overcooked the smaller pieces- 45 minutes likely would have sufficed.)
These little nuggets were akin to breaded beef jerky. At the forefront was a chewy texture with a prominent chili flavor. The ITP liked them, but leftovers remain. My take- these were good and I enjoyed them (and will again tomorrow, judging from the leftovers). My primary objective was not, however, culinary satisfaction. My intention is to send a message to the groundhog- don’t screw things up tomorrow.
Mock Braunschweiger chili update: The backyard hens don’t like it. They’ll eat left over Subway sandwiches, but when they attempt to ingest mock Braunschweiger chili, their little heads shake back and forth in a rather violent manner. I was concerned, as my certification in treating “chicken whiplash” had recently lapsed and I felt naked in my unpreparedness. Goodness prevailed, as I remained clothed and the chickens (finally) ceased in their attempts to eat the chili.