Creamy White Chicken Chili

I was working for a company in Colorado that truly embraced a work hard, have fun culture — the kind where you felt at home, even though you technically weren’t. Because of that, the office itself was full of energy. On any given week, costume contests, pumpkin-carving competitions, chili cook-offs, and friendly rivalries unfolded right at our desks. Meanwhile, outside the office, we still made time for summer picnics and holiday parties, which made it clear that the fun didn’t stop at the door.

As someone from Colorado, I am no chili aficionado. I like chili, of course, but I was never fanatical about it. Still, I had noticed how versatile chili could be beyond the usual bowl topped with cheese and crackers. Naturally, there’s the ever-popular chili dog. However, serving chili over spaghetti? That one genuinely puzzled me.

Even so, curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to enter my first chili cook-off. At that point, there was nothing to lose. Winning would have been great, but the challenge itself was half the fun.

By the time I entered two chili cook-offs, I was fully aware that what I was bringing wasn’t “traditional” chili. Instead of beef and a deep red base, my entry leaned toward a creamy, chicken-forward profile. It didn’t follow anyone’s idea of chili orthodoxy, which alone probably disqualified me in some people’s minds. What mattered more, however, was that it was a creamy white chicken chili people kept circling back to, as if they’d forgotten something important. Both times, it came close — landing in second place — not because it lacked flavor, but because chili competitions tend to reward tradition. Comfort, meanwhile, was my strategy.

To be fair, classic chili has rules. In places like Texas, those rules are practically carved into stone: beef, chiles, a deep red color, and a serious attitude. Judges know precisely what they’re looking for, and as a result, anything creamy is usually met with a polite side-eye.

That said, creamy white chicken chili doesn’t play that game. Instead, it lives comfortably in the chili-adjacent lane. Cozy and approachable, it’s the kind of chili that doesn’t require a warning label or a glass of milk nearby. Rather than overwhelming your palate, it invites you to sit down, relax, and actually finish a bowl.

Not surprisingly, both times I entered it, the reaction was nearly identical. People loved it — they just weren’t sure if it counted. And honestly, that’s fair. Breaking the rules doesn’t make it any less delicious.

This is the chili people eat, not the one they debate. Quietly, it disappears early while the “real” chili is still being discussed very seriously across the room. Rich without being heavy and creamy without being boring, it also handles whatever toppings you feel like adding.

So, if you’re cooking for humans instead of judges, this is your chili.

In the end, this chili never took home first place — and that’s perfectly fine. Instead, it earned second place twice, empty bowls both times, and more “can I get this recipe?” requests than anything else on the table. That’s why it lives here. Not to prove a point, but because sometimes the best food doesn’t care what category it’s in.

Sometimes the best chili doesn’t win trophies.
More often than not, it wins repeat bowls.