DISH
with Maribeth Maloney
Pork-rinds and tacos and beers - Oh my! Porkrinds and tacos and beers - Oh my! Oh no.

It's upon us again: Super Bowl Sunday. To me, it's as strange a spectacle as Oz, without the flying monkeys. Actually, we'll have to wait and see the half-time show - Prince with flying monkeys? That could work.

Really though, I don't get the appeal of watching men in tights getting their skulls bashed in. Makes me feel like a voyeur to an en masse exercise in "if I only had a brain." But along with the other 55 million women whom the Nielson folks claim watch the game (or at least some part of it), I probably will, too, if only for the commercials. Blinking isn't recommended; a single spot costs 62 times what it did during the first game in 1967. And if we're lucky, maybe there'll even be another "wardrobe malfunction." Time to program the DVR.

Everyone would agree that the best thing about the Super Bowl is the parties. It's estimated that XLI will be rung in with more than 7.5 million of them, attended by over 43.9 million party goers - 17 people per house-party, on average. During the week leading up to the partying, over 1.5 million T.V. sets will be sold, with sales of big screens increasing fivefold above any other typical week of sales. And when I think "big screen," I'm taken back some years to the last Super Bowl party I never hosted. It's a ridiculous tale, too moronic to not share. . . .

Dateline: December 1998. The husband and I moved into our loft in Manhattan and he wanted a projection T.V. with a big, motorized drop-down screen. "No way," said I, announcing my philosophy that largeness of screen is an inverse measure of smallness of brain. I guess you could say he fixed me. He got the T.V., but instead of getting a screen, he had it project directly onto the wall. I'll never forget the first time the kids caught a glimpse of 11-foot tall Barney and his backyard gang - the stuff mini nightmares are made of.

Anyhow, the Super Bowl was approaching and given our new wall of wonder and mutual love of throwing parties, hosting a bash seemed like the natural thing to do. We'd been known to get a bit out of control with parties - I'm talking kiddie birthday parties with 80 guests or so. The more the merrier. But even by that standard, we were about to lose it.

It started out tame enough with me working on the menu, a buffet of Tex-Mex offerings: Roasted Corn Salsa with Tortilla Chips; Chiles con Queso with Jalapeño Bread Sticks; Shredded Chicken, Roasted Red Pepper and Jack Cheese Nachos with Black Bean Relish; Crab, Spinach and Manchego Quesadillas with Chipotle Sour Cream; and my centerpiece, a Super "Bowl of Red" with the fixins'. Pitchers of Margaritas and bottles of Dos Equis would wash it all down. Sounds good, right? That's when things took a turn for the bizarre.

The crazy husband decided it would be fun to cover the floor with Astro Turf and rent bleachers for seating. I didn't bat an eye. I'm even more embarrassed to admit that I was the one who came up with the idea for a half-time show. Not quite Janet and Justin, but overblown nonetheless: "Modern English." Remember that one-hit wonder British 1980s group that sang, "I Melt With You?" Well, apparently by the late 1990s the lead singer's wallet had melted; he took a job as a paralegal at the law firm I worked for. I remember the first day I caught a glimpse of him: "What's up with the dude in the shiny purple shirt and the pointy black boots?" "Oh, that's Ted Mason; he used to sing with some rock group."

The long story short is that the other Moderns were similarly displaced from stardom and kicking around the city in hopeful anticipation of overcoming their "Where are they now?" stigma. Perhaps I should've offered only free Tex-Mex in exchange for their performance, but, instead, we settled on a say our condo board was; it seems that our having a living room full of amplifiers wasn't as popular with our downstairs neighbors as we thought it would be.

Our grandiose (albeit misguided) vision having been compromised, we decided to just call the whole thing off. The Melted Ones were gracious enough to not demand partial payment for the untimely stiff, but I'm still left thinking Ted was entitled to one free kick with his pointy boots.

I've neither hosted nor attended a Super Bowl party since. I've been completely missing out on the day the American Institute of Food Distribution reports is surpassed only by Thanksgiving in terms of massive national overeating. This is believed to be a function of the fact that the timing of the Super Bowl coincides with the collective abandonment of all New Year's resolutions. Brace yourselves my pie-throwing friends - more pizza will be eaten on this single day than any other during the year.

The Dominos chain will sell twice as many pies as it does on an average day, its drivers covering over four million miles to ensure your body only loses contact with the easy chair for as long as it takes to fling open the door. And consider this: in total, Americans will scoff down 11 million pounds of potato chips, over eight million pounds of guacamole, the same poundage in tortilla chips, four million pounds each of pretzels and popcorn, and two and a half million pounds of nuts. Geez. That's enough to give the Tin Man a heart attack.

I figure if I'm going to get myself back into party mode, it'll have to be with baby steps. Looking back at the menu I devised, I think just going with the Super "Bowl of Red" is a fine place to start - chili, of course, being an all-time gameday favorite. Mind you, though, my recipe wouldn't win any contests for authenticity; mine's got beans. According to diehard chili-heads, that's a no-no.

Should you find yourself on the north side of Highway 170 in Texas, 11 miles west of "Study Butte," you'll hit a ghost town called "Terlingua," population 25, and home to the International Chili Championship for the past 40 years. Rule Number Three in the guidelines is clear: "No beans, pasta, rice or other similar items are allowed." Just the same, I like the addition of beans. I wouldn't stand a chance anyhow; I think they lean in the direction of favoring guys named Earl and women named Bertha. Plus, the fact that Rules Number Ten and Eleven need to be spelled out makes me realize I

don't want a future in competitive chili-making:

Number Ten mandates the disqualification of anyone "discharging firearms or using any other explosives or pyrotechnics;" Number Eleven goes that extra mile in keeping it clean - "Nudity and lewdness is banned from showmanship."

So with confident resolve and recipe in hand, I plan to venture back into the world of Super Bowl parties, Astro Turf, bleacher and band-free. But my mindset remains unchanged; it's a latter-day gladiator match offered up for sale to the highest bidders by network wizards. Oz, indeed, but with one exception: at this year's rate of $2.6 million per 30 second spot, there's no need to wonder who "The

Man Behind the Curtain" is. I SUPER "BOWL OF RED"

Pointy-boot kickin' good-

+ 4 pounds ground beef + 2 large white onions, chopped + 4 medium red peppers, chopped + 1/2 cup chili powder + 4 garlic cloves, minced + 5 teaspoons ground cumin + 2 teaspoons dried oregano + 1 teaspoon salt + 2 (28 ounce) cans crushed tomatoes + 3 (15 ounce) cans kidney beans, drained

+ 1 cup beef broth

Heat a large, heavy pot over medium-high heat, add beef, onions and peppers; cook, stirring to break up meat, until it's no longer pink. Stir in chili powder, garlic, cumin, oregano and salt; cook, stirring, 1 minute. Stir in tomatoes, beans and broth and bring to boil; reduce heat, cover and simmer 1 hour (add more broth if too thick). Serve topped with shredded Cheddar cheese, chopped red onions and sour cream. Serves 12.