Groundhog Chili on a Maine Winter Night

January 30, 2026

Groundhog Chili on a Maine Winter Night

The kind of night where Maine reminds you who’s in charge.

Snow had been falling since mid-afternoon—not heavy, just steady enough to soften the world. Pines bowed under it. The yard lights stopped reaching the tree line. Sound disappeared the way it does when winter settles in for the long haul.

The smoker was already going.

Two-fifty on the dial. Hickory and cherry burning clean. That thin blue smoke curled up into the dark and vanished like it knew better than to hang around too long.

The groundhog had been cleaned weeks earlier, wrapped tight, waiting for a night exactly like this. Lean meat. Honest meat. The kind you don’t rush because it didn’t come easy. It got mixed with pork—because even in Maine, nobody survives winter alone. Salt. Pepper. Smoked paprika. Just enough to remind it where it was headed.

The meat went on the grates in loose chunks. No shaping. No pretending. The smoker lid shut with that solid, reassuring thump. You could feel the cold through your boots, but the fire didn’t care. Fires never do.

While the meat took smoke, the Dutch oven warmed slow on the rack. Bacon fat melted down, and onions hit it with a sound that cut through the quiet like a promise. Peppers followed. Garlic after—always after. The spices went in and bloomed, sending up a smell that didn’t belong outdoors in January, which made it all the better.

The smoked meat came off dark and smelling like something earned. Crumbled by hand, it went back into the pot. Tomatoes followed—fire-roasted, because raw has no place here. Stock loosened it up. Worcestershire deepened it. Vinegar sharpened the edges. A pinch of cocoa slid in quietly, like a secret you don’t tell unless someone asks.

For a while, the chili stayed uncovered, breathing in smoke while the snow kept falling. You stirred it now and then, more out of habit than necessity. The night didn’t ask for conversation. Just attention.

Eventually, the lid went on. Time took over. The fire held steady. The cold pressed in. The chili thickened and darkened and became exactly what it was supposed to be.

When it was ready, the spoon stood up without help. That’s how you know.

Bowls got filled inside, boots by the door, coats thrown over chairs. Sharp cheddar melted into the surface. A little sour cream if you wanted to take the edge off winter. Cornbread still warm. Maybe some crushed Cheez-Its because not everything needs explaining.

Outside, the smoker ticked as it cooled. Snow kept falling. The world stayed quiet.

And for a while, everything felt exactly right.