What’s better than a humble bowl of chili between frogspawn sightings and Lego engineering on these wildly indecisive Maine spring days?

Maybe just one thing. A giant, unapologetic, knife-and-fork individual nacho. Piled high and a little messy.

Maine spring can’t make up its mind. One minute you’re crouched over a cold puddle, checking on frogspawn, the next you’re stepping over Lego masterpieces in thick socks, wondering if winter ever really left. Meanwhile, something simmers on the stove, filling the house with cozy smells.

I start with the beef. Always. Into a hot pot it goes, breaking it up and letting it really brown. Not just grey, but properly browned in spots. That is your first layer of flavor.

Then the onions go in, straight into the beef, softening and picking up all those bits from the bottom of the pan until they are translucent and sweet. Garlic follows, just for a moment. Enough to smell it, not enough to burn it.

And then the tomato paste. Probably a little more than you think you need.

This is where I slow down. I let it cook. Really cook. Stirring and pressing it into the pan until it darkens and smells rich and almost toasty. If it sticks a little, even better. That is where the depth comes from.

From here, I stop measuring.

We joke it is the ARRRTTTIIISSSTTTT in me, but honestly, it might just be impatience. A dash of this, a pinch of that. Chili powder, cumin, something smoky. I go until it smells right.

Then in go the tomatoes, the beans, and a little Worcestershire sauce. It all simmers until it tastes like chili.

And at the very end, the not-so-secret secret. A square or two of dark chocolate, stirred in off the heat. You will not taste chocolate, but you will notice if it is missing.

Most days, we eat it straight from the bowl. But sometimes it ends up on a giant tostada, individual nacho. A full knife-and-fork situation.