I owe the Aunt Lulus of the world an apology. I judged you too harshly and now that I am one of you, I'm feeling more inclined to show you all a little grace and mercy.

Aunt Lulu (pronounced 'Ain't') is every Southern woman who stands over the serving table at the church potluck to make sure no one walks away without a spoonful of her latest cream-of-mushroom-creation. This woman wants credit for her hard work and she wants to see your face as you bite into her most recent experiment.

Aunt Lulu is a recipe saboteur, though. If she makes something particularly delectable, you are goint to have to ask for the recipe no less than ten times and you can be pretty sure once you finally get it, she has left out several key ingredients so your rendition of the dish will never be quite as good.

Aunt Lulu likes to bake sweets so addictive you would swear she put some sort of illegal substance in them and so delicious she makes you forget that Crocker woman's first name. Once she has you hooked and you lower yourself to once again grovel for her recipe she'll scoff, "Oh honey, you know that's a family recipe. I don't give that out."

In the past, I thumbed my nose at the Aunt Lulus of the world. My thoughts were that unless your name is Sister Schubert or Famous Amos, nobody is trying to rip you off. We just want to be able to make your pound cake without you watching us lick the plate when we're done because who knows when you'll grace us with it again.

Recipes are not like your great-grandmama's pearls that Uncle Bubba hocked at the pawn shop to go to the bingo hall. Those pearls might be long gone, Lulu, but you can give out a recipe and still keep it for yourself. Then everybody can enjoy your pound cake whenever they feel like it.

Things changed for me last week when I won the chili cook-off at my church's Hallelujah Hoedown with my white chicken chili recipe. I did the Cabbage Patch dance in the fellowship hall when I found out I'd won a $100 gift certificate to one of my favorite stores in town.

When people said, "Your chili was so good. Do you share your recipes?" I scoffed.

"Of course I do. I don't understand people who don't. Just because I give you my recipe doesn't mean I can't make it anymore myself."

But I realized as I drove home that if I gave my recipe out it could be used against me in the next chili cook-off. This struck me as somewhat self destructive and I'm just competitive enough to care. It may not be real Christian of me to want to hold tight to my recipe but do you think I'm really going to be thinking about that while I'm enjoying my free hour long massage? No, I'm going to be scheming about how I can win next year. One hundred dollars worth of spa treatments can make a momma a little cutthroat - especially if you consider dry shampoo the greatest discovery of your adult life.

I've struggled with this pickle I'm in and I've decided against my better judgment, to share the recipe on my blog (www.robinschicks.com). Your chili may or may not turn out as good as mine. My name may not be Sister Schubert, but you can call me Aunt Lulu if you want to.

Robin O'Bryant is the author of "Ketchup is a Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves," coming November 2011. Read her blog at www.robinschicks.com or find her on Facebook as Robin Wiley O'Bryant.