Dad was a writer who could cook. Truth be told he was actually a journalist and editor whose motto was, "there are no good writers, there are good editors", but he was a pretty good writer too. The cooking part? He was not an every night cook, but he had his specialties. I've written earlier about his foray into bread making. He expanded upon that in the 70's by adding a big pot-o-chili to his repertoire. I have many good memories of Dad in the kitchen, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, his red and white striped apron on, chopping and muttering under his breath. He loved his chili hot - hotter than I could tolerate so if you want to up the heat on the following recipe then follow dad's advice on using jalapenos. I avoid them but if super hot is your thing, chop ahead. Just warn me if you're going to put a super hot bowl of red in front of me.
The following is an article published in The Virginian Pilot many years ago. It is dad's writing and dad's recipe. I share it here with my pictures from our game day meal.
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Out With False Chili
by Jim Henderson, Virginian Pilot Associate Editor
This modest excursion into Southwestern cooking began as an essay titled, "Chili Without Tears, or Why Pancho Villa Changed His Name". A groundswell of interest in the scorching stew Craig Claiborne's recent disquisition in the New York Times being but one example suggests that the market for other versions of what H. Allen Smith calls "a bowl of red" might not be exhausted.
The concoction here described is the result of adapting, with adjustments for taste and prejudice, recipes from various sources collected over a period of years. Cooks may feel free-as chili mavens, a notoriously independent breed, are prone to do-make changes as they will subject to solemn caveats stated below.
Several substantive philosophical differences have to be disposed of before there can be any rational consideration of how best to make chili. The bedrock conflict is over what form the basic ingredient, the meat, must take. So long as it is lean and firm, any red meat will do-venison, elk, muskrat, boar, rabbit-but the commonest choice is beef, the tougher the better: chuck, brisket, lobe roast or round if it's not too expensive. Avoid tenderer cuts and above all tenderized meat: it falls apart in the cooking. Pork is too fatty, veal and lamb too delicate, chicken is Colonel Sanders' bailiwick.
Above all, never use ground meat. Hamburger and chili ingredients produce a hot spaghetti sauce, not chili. A desideratum of chili is the tenderizing of tough meat. If it's already ground to particles, as with hamburger, what's the point?
Assuming your choice is a leathery hunk of chuck roast, trim away bone, gristle, and as much of the fat as possible. Keep the bone for stock and dice the meat into one-inch or half-inch cubes (or parallelograms or rhomboids; don't be obsessive).
Another point of disputation is whether tomatoes go in chili. No. Never. Under no circumstances. The combination of chili fixings and tomatoes is another dish entirely, called Durango stew. You may like it, but by the sacred apron of James Beard don't call it chili.
Of less portent is the quibble over whether both onions and garlic are used. Some say use either but not both. Use both: each lends its own essence to the ultimate broth.
About piquancy: I have gradually escalated the heat of my chili to the point that it would melt the studs off a bulldog's collar. Others may wish to spare their palates, starting cool and building up. As a rule, to a basic chili unit add no more than two tablespoons of chili powder (and in any event, even when stepping up the octane it's advisable to switch to fresh peppers: chili powder in concentration is bitter and tastes like snuff. For more fire, put in the flesh of one or two jalapeno peppers, with their seeds removed --those are the little buggers that burn you up. If more firepower is needed, put in not only more jalapeno peppers but their fiery seeds as well. A note of caution: when buying canned peppers for chili, make sure not to get those described as, "chiles in escabeche:" that means pickled peppers, which will embalm your chili. if the local grocery doesn't have jalapenos, green chiles - chiles verdes- will do though they lack the jalapenos' unique spiciness.
As to ingredients:
Chili
1 large pot - creuzet ware, Ironware, electric kettle, even a large cast-iron skillet in an emergency
1 1/2 to 2 lbs cubed, lean beef
2 - 3 cloves garlic, minced
1 medium-sized onion, chopped
2 T. corn oil, lard or vegetable oil (but not olive oil - it's too aggressive)
2 T. chili powder (or other options stated above)
1 tsp ground cumin (try the supermarket spice rack and don't proceed without it; cumin is the spice that gives chili its distinctive flavor and aroma - you may even want to add more)
1/4 tsp coriander powder (or 1/2 tsp cracked coriander seeds)
1/2 T. oregano
1 T. paprika (for added redness-it won't affect the flavor)
1 can bouillon, or 2 - 3 bouillon cubes or the equivalent in bouillon powder
1 can beer (any brand)
Water as called for
The last three items go to making the stock. One can bouillon, one beer, and a pint of water will do it nicely. (I usually put it all together with extra water, throw in the bone and meat scraps, add carrot, oregano, bay leaf, pepper, celery and cook it to produce a richer broth; about 45 minutes. If bouillon cubes or powder are used instead of beer broth, add another 10 - 12 ounces of water.)
Heat the oil in the pot, add the onions and garlic, and cook at mild temperature until they are limp.
Turn up the heat, throw in the meat, and stir constantly until the pieces are uniformly browned (grayed, actually).
When the meat starts to produce juice, pour in enough of the broth to cover with an inch to spare.
Then add the flavorings.
Bring the mess to a boil, cut it back to simmer, and let cook 60 to 90 minutes, depending on how tough the meat was to begin with (it should be just a bit chewy when finished).
Taste as you go along. If the broth is rank or strong, remove some and substitute water. More of the seasonings can be added from time to time to get the blend you desire.
That's the basic chili. There are options that can be taken with it. One is to add one or two cans of dark red kidney beans five minutes before taking the pot off the fire (too much cooking reduces them to mush). Drain off the bean juice first.
If a thicker chili is desired, make a roux, using chili stock, of 1 T flour and 1 T cornmeal, stirring slowly to dissolve thoroughly.
What you do with the chili at this point is your business. Some people pour it over macaroni or spaghetti. I deplore those blasphemies. My own idiosyncrasy is to serve it over rice, a practice that could get you killed in Texas. Cut the sting with a salad including lettuce and citrus fruits. Naturally no chili is complete without tortillas; the frozen ones at the supermarket are all right, the canned ones indifferent. Beer, as cold as possible, is the natural chaser for chili.
Pancho Villa? He was christened Doroteo Arango. Any guy whose parents call him Dorothy is justified in changing his name and killing people.
