“I don’t want to talk either sometimes. I just like to stay silent.”
I’m not going to lie. I’ve been lost the last few months.
Wandering along, I’d drifted away from the things that made me who I am, from the people who helped bring those things out of me and most of all, from the knowledge that it was happening all right in front of my eyes.
You never like to see those parts of your life when you’re in them, maybe because you just can’t—it’s all too foggy when the events are unfolding.
I ended a relationship. That’s all I really want to keep it at. It was almost easy when I made the initial decision—I had been building it up for a little while in my head. But the aftermath of it took me by surprise. I was charting unknown territory; I had never been the sole person to end something like that. Previously I had been on the receiving end and also acted in agreement with the person. But to have all of that power all of a sudden and just uproot things with the click of your tongue? That was new. Somehow my old habits came in and I suddenly saw myself acting how I normally would in a similar situation.
Instant regret, utter sadness and feeling like I was the only person in the world I could turn to, even though I had had people who would have caught me all along. I wish I could change those anxieties that I have that make me react to those situations.
But I honestly don’t think people really change, and I know I’m probably not going to. I’ll always end up reacting that way to things. And that’s ok.
I do think that we eventually gain the open-mindedness to walk a different path in the same given situation when it arises a year, 10 years, 20 years later. But I also think we’re just as likely to fall right back into our comfort zone and make the same choices as before.
After the breakup (or any big event in my life) I started to over-compensate. I started spending more money on things I didn’t need, drinking more than I should have and filling up every empty minute with television, movies—anything to distract me from those anxieties.
Enter:
I had known about Harry Dean Stanton for a little less than a year at that point. In fact, I only really found out about the guy when he passed away at the end of last year and listened to Marc Maron’s archived interview with him. Maron said that Stanton’s last movie, Lucky, was coming to theaters and I found out it was coming to Philly the next week.
I went and was blown away by this man. A jarring, thought-provoking, heart-breaking performance from a 90-year old “character actor”? I felt empty knowing that I had just fell in love with him after he passed. I shook it off and let it float to the back burners of my mind for a few months.
Then the break up happened. I started going to the library to rent anything I could lay my eyes on (ridiculously high standards still in place). And there it was: Paris, Texas. I almost glazed past it and then I stopped. It rang a bell from the WTF episode. It was one of Stanton’s leading man performances in an otherwise (great) but supporting sea of roles. I had no idea what to expect but I felt my chest pounding as I walked back home to watch it later that night.
It was simply a breathtaking movie. I don’t really know how else to put it. The writing captured so much of what humanity really is at its core—things I didn’t even think other people thought about were perfectly said in this movie from 1984. But then again the older movies can surprise you. I still vividly remember watching Annie Hall for the first time and dropping my jaw at Christopher Walken’s scene. I had had the exact same thoughts and never heard it said out loud.
I got the same exact feeling during all of Paris, Texas. And even more so I got sentimental at things I had never even experienced. I suddenly started to really feel empathy for each of these characters and the ways their paths had crossed and eventually dispersed.
I hadn’t fallen in love with a movie like that in a very long time. It’s made its way right up to the top of my list, next to The Shawshank Redemption of course.
I wasn’t sure how this movie would fit into my blog though. It didn’t mesh into the name of a dish as well as my other ones had. So I made the most literal translation I knew of. Something Texan (chili) and something Parisian (good old French wine). Which brings me to the recipe: Best Damn Chili.
After a few days of searching, I decided to opt out of the traditional Texas chili—that’s one made with no beans or tomatoes. Just straight up meat bowl. I wanted something more classic, so I went with this recipe that had a few kinds of peppers, tomatoes and a bunch of other mix ins and toppings that I would add. Oh, and of course a good bottle of French wine to wash it all down.
Chili is actually a pretty simple thing to make. You start out with your aromatics—onions, garlic—then gradually add the peppers, spices and other ingredients to build up the flavor. Then it’s kind of a test of patience to see how long you can let it simmer and bubble away until it’s reached its peak time for consumption.
When it was all said and done I started to assemble. First, the chili itself, in all of its rich, savory majesty.
Then I topped with cheese, cilantro, Greek Yogurt and God forgive me, my most guilty pleasure on this Earth.
When it was all said and done, I kind of felt like I had gone on a journey just making this chili alone. It’s been months since I’ve written a blog post, and it felt nice to just come home again, personally speaking.
Who knew all I needed was a big bowl of chili on a 90° day?
I know today is probably better than some of the days ahead of me, and I’m ok with that. As long as I can pull myself out of wandering every once in a while and learn to realize that it’s perfectly ok to still get lost.
The Shawshank Risotto 