Chili

The can and the ad are made up, but the actual individual-batch chili I’m pretty proud of. I cooked up some and presented it to my godson’s dad. This is actually what he wrote back:

 “Your chili was...was...ambrosia— the adjective, not the dessert, which we know is made with tangerines and marshmallows and is another conversation. 
Your chili was so good I ate it with only a crumb of cornbread and a few shreds of cheddar for color. 
Your chili was so good, I lost track of how many servings I had had.  
Your chili was so good the gas it was to produce passed so quickly through my system that its first exit came as I stood to clear my plate. It was one of those low volume, high intensity evacuations that invaded my entire personal space in half a breath. A sickly-sweet smell that I thought might actually change the color of my clothes, an aroma I could only deduce had come from at least six exotic plants, spiced and pressure-cooked to peak efficiency. As I walked to the kitchen I took very small steps, bending only at the knees, but it was no use. In just three steps the chorus of "Daaaaaaads" rained on me. I ran.
After washing my plate I moved to the farthest corner of the house to enjoy my chili afterglow, but as you know it’s a small place, so whenever I felt wind about to break, depending on whether I was wearing shoes or not, I would immediately leave through the nearest exit and briskly walk the perimeter of the house twice. Or, sans shoes, head to the john, strip naked and stand under the bathroom fan for 10 minutes. This worked pretty well until about 3AM when I fell asleep in the tub.
Your chili was that good.”