Gluten-Free Chicken Chili with White Beans, Sweet Potato and Lime

Gluten-Free Goddess chicken chili with white beans.

Game day looms. Tight ends are tightening. Quarterbacks are quarterbacking. And after that field goal miss by the Ravens at the last Patriot's game, kickers are praying to the football gods they won't be called in for a chip-shot, with 11 seconds to spare, in the season finale known as The Super Bowl. Do I sound like I know what I am talking about? I don't. I just overheard some manly sporty banter over lunch. To which I smiled politely.

And reached for a pickle.

Even after watching every episode of Friday Night Lights, I still don't understand a down. Football is a mystery. Back fields in motion. Penalties! Off sides. Snap. Blitz. Gotta love the lingo.

It's a language alluringly foreign to me.

Like math.

Or for some, perhaps it's akin to say, abstract expressionism.


Thing is, I get negative space. In my bones. This is my territory. Now you're talkin' my language. I appreciate analogous color. Gesture. Tooth. Value verses tone. The sensual beauty of surface. The seduction of action. The painter's hand. Unprimed and primed. Gels, and viscosity. Transparency and opacity. Cool against warm. Lost and found edges.


Though it's not all yin yang, a wrestle of opposites.

As in football- and life- painting is a focus of expression, sometimes true and authentic, and sometimes disappointingly off the mark.

Like that Ravens field goal.

We try. We sometimes miss. But what matters is- we make the effort. And that is all we can do. We kick the ball. We brush wet paint. We string words into a lyric. We make chili.

And sometimes?

We get a winner.

And if not?

Tomorrow is another day.


Read more + get the recipe >>

Gluten-Free Goddess chicken chili with white beans.

Game day looms. Tight ends are tightening. Quarterbacks are quarterbacking. And after that field goal miss by the Ravens at the last Patriot's game, kickers are praying to the football gods they won't be called in for a chip-shot, with 11 seconds to spare, in the season finale known as The Super Bowl. Do I sound like I know what I am talking about? I don't. I just overheard some manly sporty banter over lunch. To which I smiled politely.

And reached for a pickle.

Even after watching every episode of Friday Night Lights, I still don't understand a down. Football is a mystery. Back fields in motion. Penalties! Off sides. Snap. Blitz. Gotta love the lingo.

It's a language alluringly foreign to me.

Like math.

Or for some, perhaps it's akin to say, abstract expressionism.


Thing is, I get negative space. In my bones. This is my territory. Now you're talkin' my language. I appreciate analogous color. Gesture. Tooth. Value verses tone. The sensual beauty of surface. The seduction of action. The painter's hand. Unprimed and primed. Gels, and viscosity. Transparency and opacity. Cool against warm. Lost and found edges.


Though it's not all yin yang, a wrestle of opposites.

As in football- and life- painting is a focus of expression, sometimes true and authentic, and sometimes disappointingly off the mark.

Like that Ravens field goal.

We try. We sometimes miss. But what matters is- we make the effort. And that is all we can do. We kick the ball. We brush wet paint. We string words into a lyric. We make chili.

And sometimes?

We get a winner.

And if not?

Tomorrow is another day.


Read more + get the recipe >>