Tonight I came home to an apartment that smelled of garlic, chili powder, cumin. I sniffed the air, lifted the lid, praised the inventors of crock pots. Soon I will eat this chili wonder, with cheese, with sour cream, with noodles, like the Midwesterner I am. And I will be so glad for the return of chili season, for the sweater weather, for the chill seeping through the window screens. Bravo, summer. You've done a good job this year: now I will admire you as you bow out gracefully and leave me with my steaming bowls of simmered spices.
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