Moe Sorrentino, 62, retired municipal tree trimmer with a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2018 red oak fall, wiped a smudge of chili grease off the toe of his steel-toe work boots and leaned against the folding table holding his crockpot. The firehouse bay reeked of smoked paprika, burnt hot dogs, and the damp wool of volunteer coats hung by the door, the hum of conversation bouncing off the cinder block walls. He’d only agreed to enter the annual chili cookoff because his next door neighbor had begged him, said his San Marzano red sauce chili was the only thing that could beat the plant nursery owner’s notoriously over-seasoned pork green chili. He’d rolled his eyes at the time, but he’d driven three hours to his cousin’s farm in south Jersey the weekend before to pick the tomatoes himself, just to be sure he had a fighting shot.
He looked up when a shadow fell over his sample cups, and found a woman with silver streaks shot through her dark braid and a streak of paprika smudged across her left cheek staring at the handwritten sign taped to his crockpot: NO CUMIN. NO BEANS. NO EXCUSES. She was wearing a faded flannel shirt and scuffed work boots caked with mud, no sparkly sneakers or bedazzled “World’s Best Cook” apron like half the other contestants. She held out a sample cup, and he dished a spoonful into it, his knuckles brushing hers when he passed it over. The jolt was small, sharp, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was 17 fumbling with his first girlfriend’s seatbelt at the South Philly drive-in.
She blew on the chili, took a sip, and hummed low in her throat. “Damn. I thought I had this in the bag.” Her voice was rough, like she spent half her days yelling over leaf blowers, which, as the nursery owner, she probably did. He fought the urge to reach out and wipe the paprika off her cheek, his chest tight with the kind of conflict he’d spent seven years avoiding. After his wife died of lung cancer in 2016, he’d sworn off dating entirely, hated the performative small talk of the senior mixers his sister kept trying to drag him to, hated the way people his age treated romance like a box to check so they wouldn’t have to die alone. He’d been perfectly content trimming the oak trees on his property, fixing up old lawnmowers for the neighborhood kids, and eating chili for dinner three nights a week, no compromises.
She leaned against the table next to him, their shoulders brushing when she shifted her weight to nod at her own crockpot across the bay, and he smelled pine sap and lavender laundry detergent on her flannel. “I’m Lena. My chili’s got three times the cumin yours does, for the record. I think you’re just a coward who can’t handle a little heat.” He laughed, a loud, barking sound he didn’t make often these days, and told her he’d spent 30 years climbing 80 foot oak trees in thunderstorms, he could handle heat, he just didn’t like his chili tasting like candle wax. They bantered for 40 minutes, no talk of medical bills or dead spouses or grandkids, just him making fun of her for being a Steelers fan in a ratty Najee Harris jersey, her making fun of him for wearing a Phillies hoodie like he was still living in South Philly, not a tiny town 45 minutes outside Pittsburgh.
When the judges announced they’d tied for first place, the whole bay erupted in hoots and cheers. The prize was a three day cabin rental up in the Allegheny National Forest, donated by the rec department, and half the crowd started yelling that they should go together, split the prize. Moe’s first instinct was to say no, to make a joke about not wanting to put up with her bad chili for three whole days, but he looked over at her and she was grinning, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and she raised an eyebrow like she was daring him to say no. “You scared you can’t keep up with me on a hike, tree guy?” she said, and he felt that same sharp jolt again, the one that made him feel like he was 17 again, not a widower who’d forgotten how to want something that wasn’t quiet and predictable.
He took his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and held it out to her, their fingers brushing again when she took it to type in her number. “I’m more scared you’ll sneak your cumin abomination into the cabin kitchen,” he said, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, loud and unapologetic, and he knew he’d made the right call.
He got home an hour later, leftover chili in a Tupperware in one hand, the first place blue ribbon crumpled in the other, and collapsed into the rocking chair on his front porch. His phone buzzed ten minutes later, a text from her: a photo of her brindle pit bull curled up on her couch, the blue ribbon tied around his collar, the caption reading Cabin rules: no cumin, no Phillies talk before 9am. Deal? He typed back Deal, but I’m bringing my own tomato supply, and hit send. He looked out at the big red oak in his front yard, the one he’d trimmed the week after his wife died, the one he’d almost fallen out of three years prior, and took a bite of cold chili. He leaned back in the rocking chair, the leftover chili balanced on his knee, and watched a firefly blink to life above the grass at the edge of his yard.
