Jim Davis / Arizona Daily Star 2007

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Preparing for chili cook-off

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Eating Disorders Program Coordinator

Judging the Tucson Firefighters Chili Cook-Off last year taught me that there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

Don't get me wrong. I was grateful for the opportunity to shovel 30-some spoonfuls of the finest chili known to (fire)man, but after a while your senses begin to betray you. There's only so much chili you can chomp until your taste buds clock out and your eyes react to all the onions by producing rivers of water like you're watching "Field of Dreams."

Now in its 13th year, the annual Tucson Firefighters Chili Cook-Off is an all-day affair that pits Tucson firefighters against their counterparts in the Drexel Heights, Northwest, Avra Valley, South Tucson, Tucson International Airport Authority, Air National Guard, Green Valley, Tubac and Golder Ranch fire departments. More than 30 teams volunteer time and resources to cook up a total of more than 30 gallons of chili, sold to the public for $1 a cup.

This year's cook-off is 10 a.m.-10 p.m. Friday at El Presidio Park, Downtown. There will also be roasted corn, hot dogs, and more to eat.

Proceeds support the Adopt-A-Family Program, which helps families and children with food and toys during the holidays.

The atmosphere at El Presidio Park last year was so aflame with sheer festivity you'd need a fire hose to dampen the spirit. It was clear that the participants used the Downtown festival as a Halloween-like occasion to climb into a costume and let out their inner goofs. The booths were decorated in garish themes that would make any homecoming float committee jealous.

The judging tent, on the other hand, was antiseptic and hidden away from the fun. That's where several media types and politicians — KMSB's Brandon Nash included — did the grunt work that would determine the winner.

Sitting in a circle and armed with a stack of spoons (to prevent dreaded double-dipping), we were each handed a numbered tub of chili, along with a scratch pad to jot down our ratings. There was little chatter, only silent acknowledgments, a few grunts of surprise from overheated mouths and, later on, plenty of groans from judges who were weary and overstuffed.

We worked with the precision of an assembly line, our spoons rising and falling in unison, passing the cups in an unbroken chain of overwhelming goodness.

A number of conundrums came up as I swallowed and scored — how to judge a three-alarm, three-bean number against a ground-beef-thick, pineapple-sweetened concoction? Am I getting a fair sample if I left out one of the sizable onion chunks in tub 25? Will I ever be able to eat chili again without flashing back to this ordeal?

One thing you learn about firefighters when you're eating their chili is that they're fans of making chili so hot, your tongue rolls out of your mouth in the manner of a Looney Tunes character. It was at least comforting to know that, should my mouth explode and set the tent on fire, the response time would set some sort of record.

About halfway through, with my taste buds soldered numb by the unrelenting tongue-torching, I began scoring the chili based simply on its ability to make me taste anything. Hey, did I detect a hint of mushroom there? Give it a 7. Whoa, was that saltiness an olive? Give it an 8. I wish I could say there was more integrity to my chili judgment, but I did my best.

That said, if I judged the exact same chilis three more times I'd come away with three different favorites. And if I judged it 30 times, maybe I'd proclaim 30 different winners. There wasn't a bad batch in the bunch.