There's just not a lot of cooking that happens in my kitchen, this time of year. I've learned this. I know this. I know there will be too many other things worth doing. Not needing doing. We don't much go in for the merry mayhem angle. But even without holiday plays or popcorn fundraisers or groaning trolley caravans at WalMart, 5 am Friday (always, always without that), December runs at another tempo.
I must, for example, make time enough to eat my body weight in satsumas. Every year, I think this is it. This is the year they'll not just look like wax fruit but taste like it, too. Nothing can live up to that shar pei peel, those haberdashery leaves. And every year, they are so audaciously tart and pucker-perfect, they dazzle me all over again.
Then, there are friends coming round. New friends, fellow ex-pats, with whom we share a Thanksgiving feast. Plain old play dates, to keep it real. And to keep me honest. (Because honestly? If it were always only me and the kids, I might never vacuum. Never ever.) Old friends who've traveled clear cross the country with us, and still come up smiling.
And once I get past the complete weirdness of a Fraser Fir from -- you might want to sit down for this -- the Blue Ridge Mountains, there's The Running of The Bulls to orchestrate. I guess, technically, it's The Trimming of The Tree, lights and baubles and all that. But somewhere between sweet talking three rusty screws into replacing an entire root system, and turning away a prospective bear who's taken up residence under the lower branches, well. It always feels a little more Pamplona than Rockwell. Though with less goring. And lots more sparkles.
And then, I don't know, I've just learned to leave room for those little curve balls December does so well. Like launching a house-wide Podhunt for my dearly departed Classic, the one with Bing and Elvis and roasted chestnuts fresh off the open fire. Why, Apple, why must you make them so dang tiny? I mean, seriously. I never lost my high school boom box. Not once. And it could hold both my Black Celebration and Purple Rain tapes. Also, there's remembering to allow extra minutes in our morning, to jingle bells and find mittens and open advent windows (The awful waxy chocolate ones? Three raving fans, right over here). And puzzling over how to hang stockings from our pristine, unfamiliar mantle. Or even whether to, since we'll be out the door before six Christmas morning. To make it home(!!!) before supper, to feast this time with family. And about that trip planning...
I'll get around to rental cars, really I will. But I might squeak in just a few cookies, first. I never said anything about not baking. (More on that next week. Promise.)
It's a full month, my friends. That's just the way it is. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Which is why I find myself running down to the deep freeze in the weeks leading up to this one, stashing away pans of this and tubs of that. I've parted the turkey out into enchiladas and pot pies; we'll be eating Thanksgiving through Christmas. There'll be pasta with last summer's sauce, probably weekly. Probably popcorn, too. And certainly, this chili.
This chili is nothing special. I've seen special chili. Like the blue ribbon recipe a friend shared recently that ran something like this: "Step 1: Marinate 4 pounds pork shoulder in first 13 ingredients for 2 days." There were several more Steps to Part 1. There were four Parts to the Recipe. That was championship chili, award-winning excellent, and I plan to make it someday. Maybe when Zoë starts college.
Until then, there's this. This is not that chili. Not even close. For one thing, it's good. Not crown-me-with-glory great -- don't even think about bringing this to an office chili cook-off -- but deeply, dependably good. For another, it's simple. Twenty minutes of prep work plus an hour to simmer itself into a warmly spiced, mighty savory, fork-thick blend of beef and beans. Which -- because isn't this the entire point of chili? -- become downright fetching under a heap of sharp cheddar and chopped cilantro and creamy greek yogurt. Though I'm sure it would cozy up nicely to minced onions and jalapenos, if that's more your style. Saltines are required. I think it's federal law.
And while there's no actual mandate against cooking this month (I see you, seven butternuts, winking at me from the garage), I do love a good fallback position. And in fall and winter and this busy little ridge running right in between, I think this is as good a position as any.
Workaday Chili
Adapted from Ralph's Great Divide Beef and Bean Chili, Bon Appetit, Sep 2002
The original called for a half dozen jalapenos, chopped and added with the garlic. I am a one-star wimp; I adore spice, but bow out when it comes to serious, tongue-searing heat. (I also appreciate that 2 out of 3 kids enjoy this.) The following makes a nicely spiced but not hot chili; feel free to amend with true chili heat to suit. I imagine a chipotle or two would be fiendishly good here.
This yields a generous pot, enough to feed 6 starving adults, or 8-10 hungry ones. And still, I always double it. It freezes beautifully, like most soups and stews. But unlike most soups, which always seem a little sad somehow, the second time around, and often leave me wishing I hadn't, with this chili I've only ever wished I had a larger vat.
1 Tbl olive oil
2 large onions, chopped
8 garlic cloves, chopped
2 1/2 pounds ground beef (85/15% fat)
1/4 cup chili powder
2 Tbl ground cumin
1 tsp sweet paprika
2 tsp. salt, plus more to taste
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes in juice
3 15 1/4-ounce cans kidney and/or black beans
1 14-ounce can chicken broth
To garnish: Greek yogurt/sour cream, sharp cheddar, cilantro, chopped onions, jalapenos, saltines
Heat oil in dutch oven or other heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add onions; sauté until brown, about 6 minutes. Add garlic; sauté 1 minute, until fragrant. Add beef; sauté until brown, breaking up with back of spoon, about 5 minutes. Add chili powder, cumin, paprika and salt, then mix in tomatoes with juices, beans, and broth; bring to boil.
Reduce heat and simmer until chili thickens and flavors blend, stirring occasionally, about 45 minutes.
Cool slightly. Refrigerate uncovered until cold, then cover and refrigerate 2 days, or freeze. Delicious on day 1; even better on days 2 and 3. Freezes beautifully. Reheat on the stove if you have the time (gently bring to a steady simmer), or in the microwave if you don't. Which is why you made chili in the first place, right?