Mike discovered that my phenomenal Super Bowl chili is only delicious thanks to a packet of McCormick’s Original Chili Powder and not my “ancient Chamorro secret,” as I’ve been telling him these past five years. I have led him to believe that the “kick” he tastes is the stream of tears poured in because it hurts to stir and season for hours, when really, I just dump everything into our All-Clad slow cooker and scoop it out later.
Super Bowl Sunday is the best time to reveal anything because Mike’s too wrapped up in the big game to fight over my culinary deception, especially since I don’t really get the steak flown overnight from Mexico. Sorry, dear husband. You’re really savoring the meat section from Safeway, not the soul of Tenochtitlan.
Even though I was pregnant this time last year, Nathan was still able to participate.
Nathan was right about the Steelers and would have been right about the Seahawks had the refs not been complete tools and Ben Roethlisberger not led the Complete Tool Brigade.
This year, Nathan cashed out his Coverdell account and put it all on the Colts. At least he didn’t touch his baptismal money. We might need that for next Super Bowl, when Steve Hutchinson decides he has a soul worth more than his gazillion-dollar contract with the Vikings and returns to the Seahawks and we finally have a line-up that ferry us through the playoffs. In any case, here it is:
Colts: 41. Bears: 10.
And if the refs have a repeat performance of being spineless, impotent zebra-striped tools, it’ll be an even bigger tragedy because they’ll take the win away from my baby.