Deer chili: composite of two recipes––a keeper

 Back story: At bell rehearsal one Wednesday in October, I announced, “I’m taking chili to Carolyn and Lynn tomorrow.” Lynn was recovering from a stroke; Carolyn was a sister, so it stood to reason I should do something.

I texted her: “May I bring chili tomorrow?”

She answered, “I just made some last night.” So much for that.

I texted my brother Bill. “Can I bring you some chili?”

He answered, “I’ll take a raincheck; it’s chaotic over here since we’re planning to move.”

Truth be told, I hadn’t yet cooked the chili, though I’d thawed out a package labeled “deer chili” from son Eric. I’d pulled down cans of tomatoes and beans, herbs and spices to the countertop.

I waited a few days, then decided the meat needed to be cooked at least, and refrozen, if necessary. I browned the meat, cooled it, freezer-container-ed it, but left it in the fridge.

The next Tuesday, I awoke with a yen to finally prepare the chili. I’d pulled out of a collection of cookbooks one called “More Faithful Cooking,” published in 2010 by the United Methodist Women of Piggott, Arkansas, and autographed by Lou Forrest, who was at that time proprietress of The Downtown Inn.

In the section, Soups & Salads, I found on page 25, two chili recipes: one called Santa Fe chili, by Alex Routszong, and the other, Chili, by Leigh Cole. Between them both, I had about every ingredient mentioned. I found the crockpot, a wedding gift in 1960, hauled it up to the range, set it on a burner cover and plugged it in. Originally, I had planned to cook in the cast iron Dutch oven, but both recipes called for a “slow cooker.” Duh!

I transferred the meat to the cooker. I had no onion, so I sprinkled in a goodly amount of dried onion flakes. I didn’t have tomato sauce, but added diced tomatoes, Ro-Tel, and V-8 juice. Drained and rinsed black beans and pinto beans went next. Added a packet of Ranch dressing mix and part of a package of Taco seasoning. Two teaspoons of cumin, which I didn’t know I had, added. Then dash after dash of chili powder. No salt; no pepper.

After the last addition, I tasted it and added more chili powder until I was satisfied.
“Cook on high for four hours,” one said; “five-six hours,” the other recipe said. I chose four.

It was the best chili, I told son Eric, provider of the meat, I ever made and ever ate. He replied, “I hope to have some fresh meat by the end of this week.”

My brother Bill was now ready for some, so I containered a large amount, took it over at lunch time, and we ate and visited while his wife shopped.

I put the remainder in plastic bowls for left-overs. Yum! Yum! What a way to participate in the fall and winter seasons.

                        I've signed up to take a pear cobbler to the family Thanksgiving next week.

c 2018, PL, d/b/a lovepat press, Benton AR USA

I never tire of time in the Ozarks: a look back

 While I'm here in 2018, this post was written about the same experience but in 2012. Perhaps you have come on board since then, and haven't read it. If you read it earlier, perhaps you've forgotten some details--like I had.

2012:
           Question: Who but an over-achieving writer would go to such pains just to get bundled up to go outside on a below-freezing Ozark morning? With coffee, of course, even though a bit stronger roast than my usual half-caff.

           Answer: For one, a back-packed mountain man walking the steep incline toward downtown. For another, a dog walker. She looked over and I “Good morning”-ed. In response, she said, “I just saw a red fox go across the road. Beautiful! ”

        So I’m in good company here in Eureka Springs. I’m in Spring Garden Suite, my usual stable here at Dairy Hollow. I did ask for a room in the new “505” building next door, but Ms. Director forgot and instead, scheduled a writer who wanted to stay a month. I didn’t mind, especially when I discovered it was Tom S. from New England who was a co-resident several years ago.

THE MUSE 

One leaf,
large and tattered,
followed me inside, like
a cat waiting for the door to
open. 

“Hello
there! Come on in!
You’ll be safe from Jana’s
leaf blower. Here, join the ones I
picked up

as I
crossed the parking
lot yesterday. Right up
here under the lamp where I can
see you." 

             Behind me, cars and conversation. A writing workshop was scheduled for all day in the main house. If someone parked in front of “my” place, (six feet from the street) I’d have to move inside!  

VIEW FROM THE STREET AT THE WRITERS COLONY FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF A DOG WALKER:

 “Would you
look at that! A
cleverly stuffed strawman
posing as a writer on this
freezing 

morning.
No gloves, though. Life-
like hands, even holding
a Razorback pen! It IS a
writer!?!”

            Vehicles began parking on “our” street. No one exited an SUV. Might it be a photographer? After all, there are now three papers in this town, though two of them seem to have the same information—but written by different folks.

             No newspaper photog, alas, but Tom walked by with a basket of breakfast and lunch fixings “so I won’t have to ‘bug them.’” He gestured toward the main house soon-to-be-awash with paying, workshopping writers. “Oh,” he continued. “Mind if I take a picture of you writing? I’ll send it to my wife and email or text you a copy.”

           “Oh, no!” I said, followed immediately by, “Okay.” How did he know that at that very moment I was writing about a photographer? Karma?  Indeed, I DID look like an obese straw person!

             Later, I went inside to refill my coffee mug—a leaf-motif-ed one from home. As I turned back to the door, sure enough, there was a vehicle immediately between “my” walk and the street. An older man with a knitted head covering carried his supplies down the stone slab stairway to the entrance. The antique-car license also showed a Vietnam Veteran sticker. I forgave him immediately.

TWENTY SIX DEGREES
Colder,
but the maples
aren’t yet as vibrant as
last year, or hickories quite as
yellow. 

Turns out that the area’s prime color peaked last week. All the maple and cottonwood leaves were underfoot. Except the ones I brought in to grace my writing space.
~ ~ ~ ~

2018: Next post will update to my current autumn visit. PL

c 2018, PL, d/b/a lovepat press, Benton AR USA