Australian Dinkum Chili

Australian Dinkum Chili

         You are, no doubt, all gathered here in my presence to learn the knowledge of the origin of chili. I shall endeavor to not disappoint.

         It was in the summer of ’05 that Professor McDougal and I first started upon our quest to answer the gnawing archeological question; where was the first pot of chili made? Many, up to that time, had always placed its origin in a country referred to on ancient maps as Mexico, but our research at the time encouraged us to look south, much further south, to the island known as Sydneyland.

         As a side note it has long been the opinion of the archeological world that Sydneyland was once a place where people flocked for amusement. It is rumored to have been populated by a giant rodent named Mickey, though no evidence of his existence has ever been proved. It was Professor McDougal’s opinion that Sydneyland was misnamed and should rather have been call Oz, which in the ancient tongue was a pseudonym for Austrailer which is, as everyone knows, a name for a semi-nomadic tribe of, well, semi- drivers. But I digress.

         It was here in the ancient land of Austrailer that we found the first clues that we might be on the right track. After much deliberation between Dr. McDougal and myself we determined that it was a narrow gauge track and the trains had been used to haul the world famous Oz chili peppers from the mountains in the south of Austrailer to the area now known as Sydneyland. Such it was that we began our trek to the mountains by rail. I argued with the good professor that the trip by rail would have been easier if we had gotten on the train but he intelligently informed me that, if we had done that, we might miss some valuable clue. As usual he was right.

         It was near the plains of Trenton when we came up short at the sight of an obviously ancient aboriginal man busily cooking over a charcoal fire. When we approached from the downwind side, the unmistakable odor of chili permeated our nostrils. McDougal and I looked at each other and grinned.

         The aborigine proved to be most friendly and offered us copious amounts of spirituous liquor he referred to as Foster’s Cactus Juice. After many rounds I finally got up the courage to ask him about the large dead rodent lying next to him, which I feared might be the mythical Mickey of Sydneyland. He informed me that it was a marsupial known as a ‘roo and was much sought after and prized for making excellent chili. In time, with our bellies full of Foster and chili we settled back to watch the rise of the southern moon over the far ridges of the Appalach Mountains. The aborigine, whose name was Og began to chant. It was rhythmic and melodic and lulled us into a state of semi sleep, semi trance. With all the semi’s around we knew why they called it Austrailer. In time, he began to speak.

         “It was in the ancient times, long before there was an Oz long before there was an Austrailer, long before the Appalach Mountains rose from the sea, that my ancestors first captured and tamed the wild chili. In time, through trial and error they were able to harness the rocket-like energy of the chili and combine it with the agile springiness of the ‘roo and through this they were able to make the one food, the true food, that throughout all time, has come to be known as, chili.

         Chili is the reason we have survived unto this day and chili will be the reason we survive for the next millennium. We have sown its seeds across the globe and have through our consultations with the Gods delivered it to the far planets by way of a device known as the Stargate. Many wonders and riches have been bestowed upon us for this gift of chili. And, so it was, that one such gift was the name by which the grandfather of all chili’s is known, Australian Dinkum Chili.”

         In the morning when McDougal and I awoke the aborigine was gone. He had left us the rest of the chili and odd shaped piece of wood that seemed to always find its way back to us whenever we tried to get rid of it, I believe he referred to it as a Frisrang or Boomerbee.


         Now I know there are those of you in the audience this evening that are wondering about the name of the chili, most especially the use of the word “dinkum”, which if our linguistic scholars are to be believed means, “a fair deal, or true, or honest”, as in the use of the phrase, “a dinkum day’s work”. It is true that one could surmise that the sharing of the chili was the aborigine’s way of giving us “a fair deal”, but McDougal, in an obscure Sumerian text, found a reference to the word “Dinkum” and oddly enough it was used in conjunction with the Sumerian word for “Chili” which loosely translated means Yech or possibly Yuck. Based on this finding, McDougal summarily surmised the Sumerian translation, and I quote:

         “The Sumerian use of the word indicates that Australian Dinkum Chili made with kangaroo parts and fermented cactus juice was not well liked in Sumeria. And the Sumerian phrase, loosely translated would mean something like this:”

          “Once you try it, you’ll dinkum twice about trying it again.”

         McDougal often expressed his support for this translation by pointing out the obvious fact that if you were to go to Sumeria, you would be hard pressed to find anyone eating chili to this very day.

Epilogue:

         Prof. McDougal retired from Poedunk University of Higher Learning several years after our amazing fact finding expedition to Sydneyland. He spent his waning years in a retirement community on the island of Miami, off of the Georgia coast. There he spent much of his time translating the ancient text of a little known tribe of little folk called the Habbits and the rest of his time was spent chasing buxom geriatric women.

         The aborigine opened a chain of chili parlors across something called “the lower 48” and used his earnings to build an amusement park based on chili peppers.

         And me?

         Well, I grew rich and famous, running illicit chili cook-offs that promised big prizes to the winner, but which, in fact, netted the winner nothing more than a stupid hat and a plaque for his wall.

A Fair Dinkum to You All.