I know lots of people make chili. Many make it from scratch. Here is how and why I make chili.
I always decide to make chili when I see the leftover odd cut pork chops for sale at Fresh and Easy. I can get a large package for very little and I feel pleasantly frugal. I then look for the least expensive beef I can find. Sometimes it is poorly cut roast, or stew meat. This time I use cube steak. The long slow cooking will break it down and this notoriously tough meat and make it melt-in-your-mouth-tender. I picture my crowded disheveled pantry. Do I have dry beans? Any kind will do, although I prefer an even mix of red beans and kidney beans. In the produce aisle, I pick the chiles. Slightly hot pasillas, mild but flavorful anaheims, and sometimes jalapenos for extra heat, but not this time. I do buy bell peppers. I always have onions and garlic, and I usually have canned tomatoes. I am not as picky about the tomatoes for chili as I am for my red sauce, (spaghetti sauce to you non-Italians) so I can use the Hunt's or Del Monte that Steve occasionally buys. I remember that I have plenty of chili powder and cumin.
After church, I start the chili. I measure out 3/4 of a cup of red beans and 3/4 of a cup of kidney beans. I rinse them and put them in a pot of water to boil. Then, every single time, I look in the pot and decide there are not enough beans. Every time, I measure out another 1/2 a cup of each kind of beans and add them to the pot. I don't know why I don't start with a 1 and 1/4 cups of each kind of bean, but I don't.
While the beans are coming up to a boil, I prepare the meat to be browned. The pork takes longer to prepare because there are all sorts of bones and fat that must be trimmed away. Both meats are cut in to large chunks and browned in small batches. If you try to brown them in large batches, as I did today with the beef, it steams instead of browning, and turns an unappealing grey.
I multi-task when I make chili. The beans are trying to boil, and I am keeping an eye on the many batches of meat I must brown. Now the peppers and onions must be chopped. Peppers are hard on knives. I start by sharpening my cleaverish knife. I split the peppers in half long ways and de-seed them. I touch my finger to the inside of the pasilla and taste it to judge the heat. Perfect; pleasantly painful. I then cut the peppers into strips and stack them. I love how the colors mix; the blackish green pasilla, the acidy yellow green of the anaheim, and the true kelly green of the bell pepper. When they are stacked, they become the most beautiful shade, there colors blending and become one glorious green. I chop. I start with a rough chop, then remember how someone I didn't like told me not to chop things so fine, so then I chop the peppers finer, and finer still. until the largest piece is about the size of a peanut. I have to re-sharpen the knife before I am finished. I feel a kinship with the women, all of them, who didn't have the option of canned food, who made everything from scratch. I feel like I am doing something for my family. I feel like the very act of chopping these peppers infuses them with love that will go into my family's body, like light, and heal them from psycic and physical ills. If someone eats my food, they carry my love with them in their cells. I peel the onion, thankful for my contact lenses that keep them from burning my eyes. Still, I can tell this is a strong one. Fumes go up my nose and make me cough. It is a healthy onion, tightly wrapped in in many layers of brown skin, and gleaming white once it is peeled. I only put in one onion, because no matter how strong it is raw, onion turns sweet when you cook it, and I do not want sweet chili. I once ruined an entire batch of red sauce by adding too much onion.
The juggling is almost done. The meat is browned and waiting in an old square pan to be added back. The peppers are sauteing in pan the meat was browned in, picking up the flavors. I give the peppers a good head start before I add the onion. I decide against garlic, since I know I will be adding garlic powder. As the peppers and onions cook, I add the thing that makes it chili; the chili powder. First I add a lot, then I add more. I add cumin, garlic powder and season salt, knowing the salt will help break down the vegetables and cause them to release their juices. When everything is a shiny gritty brownish red, I add the meat back in, along with a little water to loosen everything off the bottom of the pot. All of this has taken about 30 minutes which means the beans have another 30 minutes to simmer before they can be added. That is more than enough time to clean up, and adjust seasoning levels.
The chili now sits on the stove, simmering for several hours, melding all the flavors. The house will be filled with the smell all afternoon. Between dancing and singing Veggie Tales songs with Annie, reading "The Country Girls" and relaxing, I will make corn muffins and honey butter. When Steve and David come in from their afternoon of paint ball, it is the first thing they will smell. When Katie and Alex wake from their respective naps, they will smell it. They both know that asking if someone can eat over is just a formality, because they the answer will be, "Yes, of course! There's enough food for an army."
I cook like this because this is how my Nana cooked. I cook like this because this is how my Aunt Liz cooks.
This is how I make chili, and this is why I cook.
I always decide to make chili when I see the leftover odd cut pork chops for sale at Fresh and Easy. I can get a large package for very little and I feel pleasantly frugal. I then look for the least expensive beef I can find. Sometimes it is poorly cut roast, or stew meat. This time I use cube steak. The long slow cooking will break it down and this notoriously tough meat and make it melt-in-your-mouth-tender. I picture my crowded disheveled pantry. Do I have dry beans? Any kind will do, although I prefer an even mix of red beans and kidney beans. In the produce aisle, I pick the chiles. Slightly hot pasillas, mild but flavorful anaheims, and sometimes jalapenos for extra heat, but not this time. I do buy bell peppers. I always have onions and garlic, and I usually have canned tomatoes. I am not as picky about the tomatoes for chili as I am for my red sauce, (spaghetti sauce to you non-Italians) so I can use the Hunt's or Del Monte that Steve occasionally buys. I remember that I have plenty of chili powder and cumin.
After church, I start the chili. I measure out 3/4 of a cup of red beans and 3/4 of a cup of kidney beans. I rinse them and put them in a pot of water to boil. Then, every single time, I look in the pot and decide there are not enough beans. Every time, I measure out another 1/2 a cup of each kind of beans and add them to the pot. I don't know why I don't start with a 1 and 1/4 cups of each kind of bean, but I don't.
While the beans are coming up to a boil, I prepare the meat to be browned. The pork takes longer to prepare because there are all sorts of bones and fat that must be trimmed away. Both meats are cut in to large chunks and browned in small batches. If you try to brown them in large batches, as I did today with the beef, it steams instead of browning, and turns an unappealing grey.
I multi-task when I make chili. The beans are trying to boil, and I am keeping an eye on the many batches of meat I must brown. Now the peppers and onions must be chopped. Peppers are hard on knives. I start by sharpening my cleaverish knife. I split the peppers in half long ways and de-seed them. I touch my finger to the inside of the pasilla and taste it to judge the heat. Perfect; pleasantly painful. I then cut the peppers into strips and stack them. I love how the colors mix; the blackish green pasilla, the acidy yellow green of the anaheim, and the true kelly green of the bell pepper. When they are stacked, they become the most beautiful shade, there colors blending and become one glorious green. I chop. I start with a rough chop, then remember how someone I didn't like told me not to chop things so fine, so then I chop the peppers finer, and finer still. until the largest piece is about the size of a peanut. I have to re-sharpen the knife before I am finished. I feel a kinship with the women, all of them, who didn't have the option of canned food, who made everything from scratch. I feel like I am doing something for my family. I feel like the very act of chopping these peppers infuses them with love that will go into my family's body, like light, and heal them from psycic and physical ills. If someone eats my food, they carry my love with them in their cells. I peel the onion, thankful for my contact lenses that keep them from burning my eyes. Still, I can tell this is a strong one. Fumes go up my nose and make me cough. It is a healthy onion, tightly wrapped in in many layers of brown skin, and gleaming white once it is peeled. I only put in one onion, because no matter how strong it is raw, onion turns sweet when you cook it, and I do not want sweet chili. I once ruined an entire batch of red sauce by adding too much onion.
The juggling is almost done. The meat is browned and waiting in an old square pan to be added back. The peppers are sauteing in pan the meat was browned in, picking up the flavors. I give the peppers a good head start before I add the onion. I decide against garlic, since I know I will be adding garlic powder. As the peppers and onions cook, I add the thing that makes it chili; the chili powder. First I add a lot, then I add more. I add cumin, garlic powder and season salt, knowing the salt will help break down the vegetables and cause them to release their juices. When everything is a shiny gritty brownish red, I add the meat back in, along with a little water to loosen everything off the bottom of the pot. All of this has taken about 30 minutes which means the beans have another 30 minutes to simmer before they can be added. That is more than enough time to clean up, and adjust seasoning levels.
The chili now sits on the stove, simmering for several hours, melding all the flavors. The house will be filled with the smell all afternoon. Between dancing and singing Veggie Tales songs with Annie, reading "The Country Girls" and relaxing, I will make corn muffins and honey butter. When Steve and David come in from their afternoon of paint ball, it is the first thing they will smell. When Katie and Alex wake from their respective naps, they will smell it. They both know that asking if someone can eat over is just a formality, because they the answer will be, "Yes, of course! There's enough food for an army."
I cook like this because this is how my Nana cooked. I cook like this because this is how my Aunt Liz cooks.
This is how I make chili, and this is why I cook.
