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Chilli con carne

Erin had tears of laughter running down her face as I stood awkwardly in the middle of the supermarket, leaning on the trolley, typing the words "how to make chilli con carne" into the Google search bar.
"It's not difficult," she giggled, "you just buy a sauce and shove ground beef and peppers and stuff in a pot with it."
"No," I protested, "I'm making it from scratch. It has to be perfect."
"They're not expecting a culinary masterpiece."
"I know but... I want to impress them. And I'm pretty much shit at everything so my new found cooking skills will have to do."
"You're not shit at everything... you're good at drawing... and kissing."
She pecked my cheek.
A woman glared at us and pulled her little boy to walk faster, "keep it to yourselves if you don't mind," she snapped.
"Bitch," I muttered under my breath.
"I'm sorry?" The woman turned back, raising her eyebrows.
Oh shit, "Nothing ma'am," I blushed.
"That's what I thought," she smiled sarcastically, taking her child by his skinny wrist and leading him away.
"Poor kid," I mumbled to Erin.
"Tell me about it," she sighed.
"Anyway," I looked down at my phone, "back to chilli. What does this mean? One part passata? Two parts canned tomatoes? What are parts?"
She grinned, "let's just buy the ingredients and we can work that out at home."
When we had all the ingredients, we headed back to the apartment and started cooking.
"I still don't know what parts are," I told Erin.
"It's like... ratio?"
"Oh... I flunked chemistry."
"Math," she corrected, smiling.
"Oh," I blushed, "that too."
She looked guilty, "I was always shit at math too. But basically it just means that if we put in a certain amount of passata we put in twice that amount of tomatoes."
"Oh, that makes sense... mom never taught me to cook."
"Well I'll teach you."