Oscar Chili
and the award goes to...
From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newspaper Column (January 27, 1977)
Mother, dear Mother:
Understand it is very hard for me to say this, but I must: Please don’t send me any more recipes.
It’s not that I’m getting tired of cooking, and I haven’t given up eating—not that. I’m just tired of reading and tasing vicariously as I read and trying to decide whether to keep or chuck all of those dratted clippings that come with such alarming regularity through the mail. And do you know what it’s like to lose track of the ones you finally decided to keep, trying to remember if Boodles Cake is on the spindle, in the basket or already pasted in the scrapbook—and finally realizing it was wadded into a wit’s-end spitball and hurled into the fire? That’s the devil of it. Every letter of yours, so fat, so packed with scraps of printed matter that you’ve had to scotch tape the envelope to keep it sealed, presents a challenge like few others I have had to face: What to keep? What to throw away?
The thought of having to acquire another 4-drawer file just to keep track of the recipes you send is one bit of mental clutter my boggled mind can do without. I wish I knew how to put it across without sounding ungrateful but some of the recipes you come up with almost self-destruct; that carrot-peanut loaf would make anyone gag just to read it. Over the years, you see, I have developed—probably out of self-defense—the ability to taste a recipe on first reading.
Sigh. Who could have predicted this non-domestic, non-standard kid of yours would ever turn into the butterfly in the kitchen I have become? Remember me, the female offspring whose idea of a cooking coup was a big mess of popcorn? My only early experience in recipe following took place when I was about 11 and the boy next door was making fudge all the time. Those were the days when a boy’s interest in cooking might be suspect. And my lack of interest in the same subject was well in advance of the new wave of independent women who wouldn’t be caught dead holding a measuring cup. You old folks are to be commended for your sophistication in accepting our quite unplotted role-switching.
At last I’m grown up, it says here in fine print, and now I can imagine how helpless you must have felt, years after my popcorn and fudge triumphs, as you watched me drive off into the sunset with my groom. He was a poor fellow whose bride had just learned reluctantly, all she ever knew about cooking the week before the wedding: scalloped ham and potatoes, and chili con carne. Your tears were not for tender, sheltered me, being whisked off, but for him—that slim, boyish new husband of mine who, you must have realized, would get a lot leaner-looking as I very gradually caught on to the message in The Joy of Cooking. I can still see you waving us off with a potholder, wiping your eyes with a dish towel. As far as I was concerned, the only thing rice was good for, at that point, was to throw at newlyweds.
Today you look at me in disbelief. Your continuous feeding of my recipe file is probably nothing more than an expression of pride in me, that finally turned into a real-live domesticated she-creature, with one hand pecking a typewriter, one hand scribbling at a drawing board and one hand wielding a pretty mean frying pan.
But Mother, relax. Resist the impulse to clip even one more recipe. Do not read the paper. Stop watching Julia Child. Eat your breakfast without scanning the side panels of the Maltex cereal box. When you get hungry and lonesome, come on up. I’ll make the chili we all know and love, which wins no gourmet prizes but makes a hit at every potluck supper.
Chili Con Carne
The way I like it is thick and with no peppers. It’s a free-for-all, so make it thinner and add peppers if you want. In a cast-iron skillet, sauté an onion, chopped medium, in some oil and a pound or so of hamburg and cook until redness is gone. Add 1 small can each of tomato sauce and tomato paste, 1 large can of red kidney beans (if you ask me, B & M baked red kidney beans are best, funny but that’s the way I make it) plus 1 to 2 T. each of chili powder and cumin. Salt to taste, a little water if needed. Cook covered slowly about 45 minutes. Remove cover and raise heat until it’s as thick as you like.
Some recipe, eh?
Amie’s End Notes
Decades after my mother came up with her chili recipe, I hosted a dinner party in my Phoenix studio apartment the night of the Academy Awards. We dressed up for the occasion in formalwear, like celebrities parading across the red carpet. The kitchen table was set with the fine china dishware I’d acquired after my divorce. A few feet away, my little TV broadcast the awards. And mom’s chili, which came to be known as “Oscar Chili,” was the star of the show.
Last year’s strikes may have thwarted entertainers from effectively promoting their work to the Academy, but the show will go on—March 10 to be precise. And you can bet I’ll be watching, bowl of (meatless) chili in hand.
Foodwriter, friend and mentor
recently wrote about chili and its many iterations. Clearly her years as a journalist at the LA Times honed her skills at scooping the story—which you really need to check out!
I, too, put cumin in my chili. Makes all the difference. Entertaining story, as always!
The self portrait! ❤️