In my head, I knew exactly how the office chili potluck would go.

At the end of the meal, an ad hoc committee of my colleagues would approach me and say, "Gosh, Mr. Newman, this is the best chili we have ever had. And although we had not previously been planning to hand out a prize at this admittedly informal gathering, we have decided to award you this fine trophy. In solid gold. And a crown."

But I put all my eggs in one basket, and I counted them before they hatched.

I had made too much chili to place it in a sealable Tupperwaresque plastic tub, so I just put it in my Crock-Pot and drove to work. I don't live that far away. What could possibly go wrong?

And nothing did go wrong, for perhaps the first half-mile. I drove with the Crock-Pot on the passenger-side floor, and my hand on its lid.

"I'm crushing this," I thought.

I stopped carefully at a stop sign. A pickup truck on the cross street stopped slightly after I did. I started to go through the intersection, and so did he. I hit the brake, while simultaneously indicating with my hand that he should proceed. Which is to say I took my hand off the Crock-Pot at the same time I was putting on the brakes.

Chili flew all over the floor.

Incidentally, the guy in the truck also stopped and indicated with his hand that I should go ahead. He seemed nice.

The worst part of the Great Chili Tragedy of 2025 was my wife. Just before I left the house, she literally said, "You should put it in a bag in case it spills." And I literally said, "It's not going to spill."

The moment those words left my lips, I was doomed. And I knew I was doomed, too. But I'm nothing if not stubborn. And stupid. So I set out on my half-mile date with destiny.

Cleaning the car was not pleasant, especially because I was awash in self-loathing the way a car's floor mat can very easily be awash in chili. My wife came out to help me clean it — I drove it home to clean — and to her credit she said admirably little about my stubbornness and stupidity.

But she has enough I-Told-You-So points to last at least five years.

We got rid of all the chili, and I threw out the soaked floormat. All that remains now is a faint and pleasant aroma of chili, and I expect it to dissipate in a day or two.

Around a cup and a half of chili was left unspilled in the Crock-Pot. I put it in a sealable Tupperwaresque plastic tub, placed that tub in a bag (I mean, who wouldn't put a container of chili in a bag before attempting to transport it?) and brought along a small serving bowl. When safely at the office, I placed these next to the array of large slow cookers full of chili.

My colleagues were unexpectedly and uncharacteristically sympathetic at my plight, and more than one mentioned an episode of "The Office" in which essentially the same thing happened to the oafish Kevin. Many even sampled little tiny bits of my chili, since there was not much to go around.

But I did not receive a solid gold trophy, or even a crown. And — I'm being serious here — it may well have been the best batch of chili I have ever made. Just the right amount of spice (quite a bit) cooked for just the right amount of time (quite a while).

Lately, I have unaccountably been thinking about John Greenleaf Whittier, the justifiably forgotten 19th century American poet whose cloying verse was once popular. When he is considered at all these days, it is for a single line toward the end of his emotion-choked ode "Maud Muller."

I find it appropriate for an exemplary batch of chili, spilled before it could be served and enjoyed.

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,/The saddest are these: 'It might have been.'"

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