It’s been unseasonably cold here at Chez She for the last week or so, most notably a couple of mornings ago when the thermometer on the North side of the house gleefully reported that it was 9F (-13C) outside when I crawled out of my nice warm bed. So I’ve broken out some of my tried-and-true Winter-Warm-Up recipes (the non-alcoholic ones, for now), and the fridge is full of chicken noodle soup, shepherd’s pie, and chili.
I love chili. And, thanks to my cast-iron stomach, I don’t have to drop the other shoe and follow that with “but chili doesn’t love me,” as so many unfortunates must. I like my chili hot, spicy, beany and with a hunk of warm cornbread on the side. Unfortunately, though, Mr. She doesn’t share my taste, on this matter at least. He dislikes beans. He doesn’t have a cast-iron stomach. And he has fond memories of the “chili” he ate growing up, a watery concoction of my mother-in-law’s, that had ground beef, chopped up onions, chopped up celery, and tomatoes. With elbow macaroni. When he thinks of chili, that’s what he thinks of. Nothing else will do.More