Tricks To Spooky Halloween Treats!
by Terryl Gavre
Photos by Vincent Knakal

I grew up in a small town an hour outside Seattle in one of those neighborhoods where all the houses looked exactly alike — unless, of course, it was a holiday. That’s when people got creative. Each holiday, yards were festooned with all the seasonal trimmings: lights at Christmas, eggs and bunnies at Easter, and turkeys at Thanksgiving. But as enjoyable as these holidays were, they didn’t even come close to the big one, the one we all waited for — Halloween. Headstones, ghouls, “dead bodies” dangling from trees, and giant, silky white spider webs stretching tree-to-tree and house-to-house adorned the neighborhood. What freaky, frightful fun.

Every neighborhood has a crackpot and in mine, it was my grandfather. Grandpap was that crazy old guy who piped recorded shrieks of a woman screaming bloody murder out the front windows of his house until all hours of the night. The house would be completely dark, except for a dimly lit bulb on the porch. My shirtless grandfather, with chest, arms, and hands dripping with ketchup, would greet those few brave enough to ring the bell.

I’ll never forget how crazy he looked, ketchup oozing over his skin as smooth and white as a hardboiled egg.

For me, though, the best thing about Halloween — Grandpap and candy aside — was that my friends would meet at our house for a big chili dinner before trick-or-treating. There’s nothing better than a hot bowl of chili to sustain you during several hours of roaming the streets on a cold, wet Northwestern evening. (This was back in the days when parents would let their kids take off with a pillowcase at dusk and return only when it was too heavy to carry.)

The first year my friends came over, they weren’t planning on dinner, but they arrived so early — five o’clock or so, way before dark and in full costume — that we hadn’t yet had dinner. My mom pulled a few more bowls down from the cupboard and made a place at the table. As years went by and word spread, the number of kids gathering at our house grew and a neighborhood tradition was born. Soon, even the parents were meeting at our house to send the kids off. They’d wind up staying and having a hot toddy or two (or three) with my folks until we returned safely (all jacked up on sugar) from our big night.

Years later, at a class reunion, I was touched to learn that one of the main reasons my friends made sure they started every Halloween at our house was because they loved mom’s chili and cornbread so much. One girlfriend even told me that to this day, “Halloween at the Gavres” remains among her favorite childhood memories. (Her fondness for this memory is no doubt heightened by the fact that my mother also served the best homemade popcorn balls and that she always gave out full-sized candy bars.)

Like so many other things from childhood, I have continued the chili-on-Halloween tradition in my home. Admittedly, with our balmy San Diego climate, it’s just not quite the same as on those nippy Seattle nights, but the chili is still a wonderfully comforting meal that will sustain little ones through a long night of Halloweening — and the grown ups who, in this day and age, now join them.