Chili From Memory

Several of you have asked for recipes of some of Mom's "everyday" meals. An irony of this project is that Mom was an intuitive cook and rarely used a recipe for our favorite meals. Chicken Soup, Country Ribs, Meatloaf, Spaghetti Sauce, Oven Fried Pork Chops, Pork Roast, Country Soup, Pot Roast, Lemon Roasted Chicken, were all staples on her table. All were lovingly created without a recipe. I suspect her repertoire consisted of hundreds of these "From Memory" dishes.

Today the wind howls and sleet blows. Seems like a good evening for Chili.

The first Chili dinner of the season was a bit of a ritual for Mom. In late fall, our local university women's organization hosted their annual used book and record sale. Jim and I would arrive at the University Extension building early to be first in line when the doors opened. Without fail the evenings were cold and miserable. After the event we'd tote our records to Mom and Dad's house for show and tell. My parents were as thrilled with our treasures as we were! Mom always had a huge cauldron of Chili and pan of cornmeal muffins ready to feed her weary record hunters. Those were exciting days! Chili dinner seems like a celebration to me. Warm and satisfying for the body and the heart.

Jim's nephew, Mark, loved Mom's Chili as much as we did. One memorable Sunday afternoon Mark's beautiful wife, Janice, spent the afternoon making Chili with us. Here is the simple recipe to make a small kettle. . .Mom would make 6X this amount.

Brown 1 Lb Ground Chuck (I use ground turkey) with a sprinkle of onion powder. The secret is to really, really brown the meat. Let it caramelize!
Add 1 large chopped onion and keep on browning. When the onion is also caramelized, add a rib or two of chopped celery. Remember, patience is key to get the nice, browned flavors.
Add 24 oz can of diced tomatoes. (I'm fortunate enough to have home canned tomatoes from my friend Kerstina. Thank you, dear!) Cook gently with a lid on.
When the tomatoes no longer look "raw" add 1 package of McCormic Chili Mix (one of the few instances I remember her using a prepared mix of anything) and a generous pinch of brown sugar.
Finish with a can of drained, rinsed light red kidney beans.
Serve with Tabasco Sauce to your cold and grateful family.

I always pray when I prepare our evening meal. I pray over my bubbling kettles and roasting vegetables and sizzling cast iron skillet. I pray for my little family who is about to share the meal together. I pray for the dear friends and distant relatives who linger in my thoughts as I work. I pray for those I love who are no longer with me.

Tonight, I'll pray for you all as I serve Chili From Memory to my grateful family.

Love to you all,
Patti

Tanta Inga

"Tanta Inga was a cook for the logger barons," Mom explained. "She was so precise with her cooking that she only used white pepper in her mashed potatoes. That way no black specks would mar the beauty of her dish."

Tanta Inga was my father's paternal aunt. As one of the oldest of many children ( 9, I think), her opinions loomed large in Dad's family. She left a deep impression on my mother as well. I grew up hearing stories about Tanta Inga. On their first meeting, Inga peeked under Mom's skirt to see the layers of crinoline that billowed under Mom's dress to emphasize her tiny waist.

Tanta Inga played cards (a sin in my mother's family). She sometimes smoked a little cigar, and had a career, and laughed a big laugh. Her home was always filled with people. She was a character. . . just the kind of woman my mother adored.

Mom remembered that Inga's coffee kettle bubbled on the stove all day long. More guests required another scoop of grounds. Egg shells simmered in the kettle to clarify the dark brew. Dad remembered it as thick, strong, and delicious.

My memories of Inga are my parents memories. In my imagination I see beautiful braided breads sometimes filled with candied fruit and nuts. Succulent roasts of goose and beef served on large platters ceremoniously carved at the table. Schaum tort filled with fresh strawberries and sweet cream. Cookies made with cardamom or almond paste and graced with bits of citron served next to fragile cups filled with coffee so thick a spoon would stand in the center. And of course, mashed potatoes white as snow. My parents remembered people lingering at Inga's table. Memories of memories. The faded stories wisp through my mind's eye.

I never met Tanta Inga, but I feel as though I have know her. So far, I've not found any recipes identified as Inga's but this one, written on lovely watermarked stationary in a shaky hand, somehow feels "right".

I made Berliner Krunce for Christmas this year. The recipe is huge so I divided it in half. It's been decades since I've baked these little cookies, and I couldn't quite get them formed into a figure 8. I remember Grandma Ellingson making them as wreaths. Mine look more like Grandma's. Tender and delicate, Berliner Krunce glisten with sugar and bits of citron. A lovely little "two bite" as Amelia called them. Amelia asked that we make them every Christmas. You know I will. I have to smile at the new memories of a memory of a memory.

Love to you all,
Patti