Chili tastes are highly personal, often inflexible and loaded with preconceptions — the political party of culinary offerings.

For some people raised in Texas, the notion of beans is akin to cat food, dismissed with derision as filler. Some chili cooks believe flavor rises and falls on cumin levels; others say the story begins and ends with dried chiles. Some like a rich beefy stock, and there are those who extol the entanglement of bacon.

Poultry and venison have their place (beef purists blanch), and vegetarian chili is met largely with guffaws except by the people who smilingly bring it to potlucks, an act that seems to stem from their childhood issues often associated with snack cake deprivation.

Serving rituals vary.

Oyster crackers on the side? Some have never heard of it, but maybe. Rice? Often! My Texan mother-in-law always served chili over spaghetti, a bit of Cincinnati craziness that confused and unnerved me, but I am perfectly at peace with chili dumped over a bag of corn chips, known as Frito pie. (Some regions refer to this as a “walking taco,” but I would prefer you do not.)