At last it's Skyline time

Come on, people! Where are all the skyline chili lovers? I can't be the only one. Show yourselves!

For those woefully unaware, Skyline chili is a Cincinnati delicacy. No, it's more than that. It's an obsession. It's long been my belief, that the real secret behind Skyline's recipe is not chocolate or cinnamon; it's that when the ingredients are mixed together, they become a drug more perniciously addictive than any other in the history of man.

Now, a lot of people are going to talk to you about Cincinnati chili. I know there are others, I know Skyline wasn't the first, but it's what I grew up on and it is unarguably (pipe down, Dad), the best. So in my mind, it's all Skyline Chili, even if I'm forced to get it from Gold Star.

I have to say it's not much to look at. Most outsiders are quite wary at first. My lovely wife, after hearing my long, loving stories about Skyline chili took one look and said, "You want me to eat that?!" But be brave, my hearties! The gastric pleasures that await the faithful are unparalleled! After some gentle coaxing from her pusher husband, she took that first bite from which none of us can ever return, and she's been an addict ever since.

Living away from Cincinnati, as I now do, I am haunted by the Coney and the Way. My stomach knots when I think that the nearest Skyline is hundreds of miles away. Every trip home I kiss my folks, say "It's so wonderful to see you!", and then, "Can I borrow the car?", and off I go. A 4-Way and two cheese Coneys.

In the next town over from where I live, there is a little, gourmet hot dog place. Slaw dogs, Chicago-style dogs, Texas-style dogs. He drowns the buns in butter before grilling them. They're fantastic, really.

They make me pine.

I have wild fantasies of befriending the owner, teaching him about Coneys, and together crafting the perfect chili recipe. But, I know it's in vain. They would be impossible to capture or recreate. Even the cans of chili that they sell–a requirement of all guests from Cincy wishing to cross the threshold of my abode–aren't the same. I love them, mind you. They don't last long in the house. But they just aren't the same. Like a cigar leaves an ex-cigarette smoker, they leave me wanting more.

So I exist, yearning, having lost my Way. Mom, Dad…I'm out.