figuring out who the good guys were and who the stinkers were. Nick . . . well, I can tell, he’s one of the good ones.”
This wasn’t news to me. Tell that to the chunk of ice that suddenly formed in the pit of my stomach.
“You and Nick . . .” I did my best to make it sound like it didn’t matter, like this was good news and I was happy for her. To tell the truth, maybe I was. If Nick and Sylvia had a relationship, that meant I could put him out of my mind once and for all.
Of course that didn’t explain the sudden hollow feeling that settled itself somewhere between my heart and my stomach.
“You and Nick, you’re—”
When Sylvia squealed with laughter, I didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.
“Come on, Maxie. You know me better than that!” She smiled in the way she often did when she was doing herbest to be understanding and I was doing my best to pretend I didn’t notice. “He’s not my type,” she said.
“So you’re not—”
“In a relationship? I don’t need some bang-bang, shoot-’em-up type. You know that, Maxie. I like people and relationships and situations that are—”
“Boring?” I ventured.
She didn’t hold this against me. At least not too much. “I was thinking more like stable,” Sylvia said. “Nick’s not my type.”
Since I couldn’t exactly explain the funny little splurt of hope that tangled around my heart, I tried not to be too obvious when I said, “So you’re not—”
“We’re not,” Sylvia assured me. “Not now, not ever.”
“Then why—”
“Is his number on speed dial on my phone?” She set down the box of spice jars so she could fold her arms over her chest and give me one of those big-sister looks of hers that she’d been practicing on me for years. Maybe she was finally wearing me down. As far as I could remember, it was the first time I didn’t resent it. “I figured I’d better keep Nick’s number handy,” she said. “You know, in case you get in trouble.”
Arguing with her was second nature. Only this time, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
• • •
In most towns we visit, we start our Chili Showdown on Thursday night and go all the way through the weekend, but because of the fund-raisers on Alamo Plaza all week,Tumbleweed had decided on a different schedule here in San Antonio. I wasn’t complaining. A few more days of cook-off fun is always good by me.
But the new schedule presented a new set of problems, namely, how to bring in customers who were used to this sort of an event on weekends, not Wednesday afternoons.
Leave it to Tumbleweed to come up with an answer.
That afternoon, we’d be holding the cook-off contest for chili verde.
By the time Sylvia and I finished stocking the Palace shelves, the fairgrounds was already teeming with eager contestants and verde fans. Verde, see, has a following all its own, its proponents as fanatical as the chili lovers who favor more conventional chili.
In the world of chili cook-offs, chili verde—sometimes called Colorado Green Chili—can be made with any meat and green chili peppers, but absolutely no beans or pasta. My own favorite version was an old recipe of Jack’s that I’d kicked up a notch by adding Anaheim peppers instead of poblanos to the heavenly mixture of pork, fresh tomatillos, cumin, and heaping portions of our own Thermal Conversion spice, but I’d seen dozens of cooks around the country add their own touches, from shredded cheese to cornmeal, lard to limes. There’s nothing ordinary about verde, and nothing I enjoy more than watching the competition unfold.
With that in mind, I was all set to head over to the main fairgrounds building where the judging was about to begin when a very weird thing happened.
Well, come to think of it, it was two very weird things.
Martha and Rosa strolled by.
“Is that . . . ?” Sylvia was setting out a new load of brown paper shopping bags with Jack’s picture on them, and she
This wasn’t news to me. Tell that to the chunk of ice that suddenly formed in the pit of my stomach.
“You and Nick . . .” I did my best to make it sound like it didn’t matter, like this was good news and I was happy for her. To tell the truth, maybe I was. If Nick and Sylvia had a relationship, that meant I could put him out of my mind once and for all.
Of course that didn’t explain the sudden hollow feeling that settled itself somewhere between my heart and my stomach.
“You and Nick, you’re—”
When Sylvia squealed with laughter, I didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.
“Come on, Maxie. You know me better than that!” She smiled in the way she often did when she was doing herbest to be understanding and I was doing my best to pretend I didn’t notice. “He’s not my type,” she said.
“So you’re not—”
“In a relationship? I don’t need some bang-bang, shoot-’em-up type. You know that, Maxie. I like people and relationships and situations that are—”
“Boring?” I ventured.
She didn’t hold this against me. At least not too much. “I was thinking more like stable,” Sylvia said. “Nick’s not my type.”
Since I couldn’t exactly explain the funny little splurt of hope that tangled around my heart, I tried not to be too obvious when I said, “So you’re not—”
“We’re not,” Sylvia assured me. “Not now, not ever.”
“Then why—”
“Is his number on speed dial on my phone?” She set down the box of spice jars so she could fold her arms over her chest and give me one of those big-sister looks of hers that she’d been practicing on me for years. Maybe she was finally wearing me down. As far as I could remember, it was the first time I didn’t resent it. “I figured I’d better keep Nick’s number handy,” she said. “You know, in case you get in trouble.”
Arguing with her was second nature. Only this time, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
• • •
In most towns we visit, we start our Chili Showdown on Thursday night and go all the way through the weekend, but because of the fund-raisers on Alamo Plaza all week,Tumbleweed had decided on a different schedule here in San Antonio. I wasn’t complaining. A few more days of cook-off fun is always good by me.
But the new schedule presented a new set of problems, namely, how to bring in customers who were used to this sort of an event on weekends, not Wednesday afternoons.
Leave it to Tumbleweed to come up with an answer.
That afternoon, we’d be holding the cook-off contest for chili verde.
By the time Sylvia and I finished stocking the Palace shelves, the fairgrounds was already teeming with eager contestants and verde fans. Verde, see, has a following all its own, its proponents as fanatical as the chili lovers who favor more conventional chili.
In the world of chili cook-offs, chili verde—sometimes called Colorado Green Chili—can be made with any meat and green chili peppers, but absolutely no beans or pasta. My own favorite version was an old recipe of Jack’s that I’d kicked up a notch by adding Anaheim peppers instead of poblanos to the heavenly mixture of pork, fresh tomatillos, cumin, and heaping portions of our own Thermal Conversion spice, but I’d seen dozens of cooks around the country add their own touches, from shredded cheese to cornmeal, lard to limes. There’s nothing ordinary about verde, and nothing I enjoy more than watching the competition unfold.
With that in mind, I was all set to head over to the main fairgrounds building where the judging was about to begin when a very weird thing happened.
Well, come to think of it, it was two very weird things.
Martha and Rosa strolled by.
“Is that . . . ?” Sylvia was setting out a new load of brown paper shopping bags with Jack’s picture on them, and she
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