Chilli and Wet, Chilli and Surf, Chilli and Dry

"So where is the recipe from?"

A problem. Right there. There is no recipe...but that just wouldn't be any fun.

My recipe for home made chilli is only loosely based on chilli. I start out intending to make one, and then I fall prey to the seductive calls of the variety of spices and herbs I have in my cupboards, and the poor thing gets pulled all over the place.

The origins of chilli, or chilli con carne, are, well, lost in the mists of time. Possibly Spain. Possibly Mexico, but more than likely Texas. Fine. I start out, and my recipe is sitting squarely in the middle of the Lonestar State. Dubya's homeland. Dusty.

Oh, and you'll need this up to see what I mean.

So you have your mince. Frying gently in a little olive oil. All okay so far. Stetsons perched lazily on a cactus.
Add tomatoes.
Recipe still tethered outside the saloon.

But now the first temptation comes trotting along. At the moment, the recipe isn't rooted in Chilliville (Arizona now, it seems). Mince and tomatoes...and who could possibly deny a little basil to complement them? The recipe is torn from the Deep South and hurled across the Atlantic towards Italy. Only it never gets there. This is meant to be a chilli, right? Only now it's a proto-chilli that smells a little Italian.

The recipe is currently clinging to a scientific weather bouy in the icy middle of the Atlantic, rolling on a girt sea, halfway between the pride of its homeland and a really good bolognese.

Add the first sprinkle of chilli powder. The recipe moves again, but only half way back across the ocean. No bouy this time. Recipe is getting damp. And salty.
Add salt.
Recipe stays put. Treads water.

Add kidney beans. Another step closer to home, and by my reckoning the recipe is probably now gasping for breath on a beach in Florida.

Another sprinkle of chilli dunks the recipe into the Gulf of Mexico, but at least it's warmer than the Atlantic.

All it would take to keep the recipe within a reasonably determined swim of it's homeland at this point is for me to stand over the cooker, happily stirring, and maybe sprinkling in a bit of pepper or more chilli, before I dish it up and eat it.

But no. Things are still a bit simplistic. Sure, there's the meat and basilled tomatoes and the chilli kick, but where are the fulsome round flavours? Hmmm? Where are the herbs and not-so-spicy-spices that complement hot dishes?

India.
That's where.
The recipe can try to make a break for shore, but it's a shorter journey to my cupboard from the cooker, I beat it easily and with a terrified moan it is airborne again.

The major issue at this point is the decision which way the recipe goes. It has to be halfway between here and India. There's back across the Atlantic, and the icy frozen rolling waves, yawning the miles away, or there's the Pacific. I'll make a concession at this point and let the recipe take the warmer option.

In goes some ground cumin, a sprinkly bit of coriander, a generous looping pouring of garam masala and a hesitant pinch of marjoram...all of which don't so much change the recipe's ballistic direction as just jiggle it about in mid-air, probably making it feel a bit ill.

After a brief hypersonic journey, a lot of whimpering and a sudden stop, the recipe sits slumped, exhausted and airsick (but recovering) on a bar stool in Hawaii.
Lucky bastard.

"Hmmm?"
"Where's the recipe from?" asks my housemate again.
"Oh, you know. Here and there."