Clint may be slaving away over his chili, but Ver? She's relaxing. She's got a book and a beer and the occasional amused smirk to throw her brother's way. Her chili is done and nobody has to fight with it. (The casual demeanor or fauxhawk shouldn't fool anyone; she's super serious about all this.)

Her chili is also, it should be noted, amazing. Maybe she doesn't have fancy names for things, but she's got a chili that started life as a beef roast and fresh tomatoes, a mix of kidney and black beans and chickpeas, stewed together until the tomatoes were soft and creamy and the beef was falling apart. Then the beef was shredded and the pot was seasoned and spiced and put to simmer. Caramelized onions, roasted garlic and bell peppers, a blend of chilis, smoke and bittersweet chocolate, a hint of black tea and a note of something more exotic round out the flavors.

This is a good, proper stew: thick, warming, inviting second servings because no taste buds were killed in the eating of the first. But if someone is so enraptured they never want to taste food again, she too has a little pot of stewed-down chilis with which to heat individual servings to taste. But she takes no responsibility for what happens after.