The first time I made crockpot buffalo chicken chili, I wasn’t trying to be creative or impressive or “content-driven” (ugh). I was cold. Like Queens-in-February, wind-slapping-your-face, why-do-I-live-here cold. The kind of cold where your bones feel offended.
So I dumped some stuff into my crockpot. Not gently. Not thoughtfully. Just…plop, plop, whatever, go in there. Chicken. Beans. A questionable amount of buffalo sauce. I remember standing there thinking, This could be great or this could be a crime. There was no middle ground.
Turns out? It was stupidly good. Like, “text a friend at 9:47 pm saying YOU NEED TO MAKE THIS” good.
And now here we are.
The Kind of Chili That Understands You
This isn’t one of those precious, fussy chili recipes where someone tells you to “bloom the spices” and you’re like, sir, I am wearing sweatpants with a hole in them. This is slow cooker buffalo chicken chili that understands bad days, long commutes, and the fact that sometimes dinner needs to cook itself while you lie on the couch questioning your life choices.
I live in Queens, NYC. Which means:
- My apartment is small
- My kitchen is smaller
- My tolerance for unnecessary dishes is nonexistent
The crockpot is my emotional support appliance. I drag it out like, “You got me, right?” And it always says yes. Quietly. By bubbling.
Why Buffalo Chicken Chili Though?
Good question. I asked myself that too while pouring hot sauce like I had something to prove.
Here’s the thing:
- Chili is comfort food
- Buffalo chicken is bar food
- Together? They’re that friend who shows up uninvited but ends up being the life of the party
Traditional chili is great. Love it. Respect it. But sometimes I want spice that makes my nose run a little. I want heat that wakes me up from my 6:30 pm existential spiral. I want something bold enough to say, Hey, you’re still alive.
This buffalo chicken chili recipe does that. Politely. But firmly.
Ingredients (a.k.a. The Vibes)
- Chicken breasts (or thighs—live your truth)
- Canned beans (white beans, black beans, whatever’s in the pantry)
- Crushed tomatoes or tomato sauce
- Onion (chopped, roughly, emotionally)
- Garlic (measure with your heart)
- Buffalo sauce (Frank’s if you’re classic, store brand if you’re chaotic)
- Chicken broth
- Chili powder
- Cumin
- Paprika
- Salt, pepper
That’s it. No rules. No gatekeeping.
How I Actually Make It (No Lies)
I throw everything into the crockpot. Chicken goes in whole because I don’t feel like touching raw meat more than necessary. Stir it once. Maybe twice. Lid on.
Low for 6–7 hours. Or high for 3–4 if you forgot dinner existed until 2 pm. We’ve all been there.
Near the end, I shred the chicken with two forks. Or one fork and mild frustration. Then I taste it.
This is important.
Because this is when you adjust. More buffalo sauce? Probably. Salt? Maybe. Hot sauce and buffalo sauce? Absolutely.
If I’m adding cream cheese, it goes in now. Cut into chunks. Let it melt into the chaos.
The Smell Will Ruin You (In a Good Way)
Around hour four, your apartment will smell…unreasonable.
Like, “Why doesn’t my life always smell like this?” unreasonable.
It’s spicy. Tangy. Warm. Neighbors might judge you. Or knock. I don’t know your building.
I’ve had this chili cooking while.
Is This Chili Authentic?
No.
Is it delicious? Yes.
Do I care? Not even a little.
Food doesn’t have to be authentic to be meaningful. Sometimes it just has to show up when you’re hungry and tired and annoyed at the MTA.
This is spicy chicken chili for real life. Not a competition.
Toppings Matter More Than You Think
Listen to me. This is where you can accidentally make it incredible.
Top it with:
- Shredded cheddar
- Blue cheese crumbles (controversial but correct)
- Sour cream or Greek yogurt
- Scallions
- Crushed tortilla chips
- A drizzle of ranch
One time I added all of these and my bowl looked unhinged. But it tasted like victory.
A Small Queens-Specific Moment
One night I was eating this chili while sirens went by outside (as they do), and my upstairs neighbor dropped something heavy (also as they do). The radiator was knocking like it had opinions.
And I thought, Yeah. This is it. This is home.
Food does that. Grounds you. Even when everything else feels loud.
Would I Change Anything?
Sometimes I add beer or add more beans.
Sometimes I forget the onion and pretend it was intentional.
That’s the beauty of it.
This chili isn’t precious. It doesn’t get mad if you mess it up. It’s forgiving. Like a friend who says, “You’re fine. Sit down. Eat.”
If You Want to Go Down a Rabbit Hole
- Read something equally chaotic and comforting on Smitten Kitchen (Deb gets it).
- Or distract yourself entirely with whatever nonsense is happening on The Cut right now.
Both pair well with chili.
