Ever wonder why some chili just sits in the bowl like a defeated army, while others… well, others command respect with every steamin’ spoonful? I’ve been pondering this cosmic kitchen question since my third divorce—or was it my second? The timeline gets fuzzy when you’ve spent four decades perfecting what I call “bowl thunder” (that’s the sound of people banging their spoons demanding more of my Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe). Back in ’93, I accidentally dumped a whole bottle of dark beer into my pot when the phone rang—it was Martha with news about her bunion surgery—and that happy mishap became the cornerstone of this hearty and flavorful homemade chili that’s followed me from Montana to three states I’m legally not allowed to name due to the “Chili Incident of ’07.”
The Meat-Path to Chili Enlightenment
Look, I didn’t wake up one Tuesday just knowin’ how to concoct a proper chili. My first attempt in 1979 was a disgrace to beans everywhere—Larry (my first ex’s brother) called it “sad soup with meat regrets.” I cried into my apron, which I still own despite the permenant turmeric stains across the pocket. The breakthrough came after meeting Old Man Wilson at that gas station in Tucumcari—odd fella with nine fingers who insisted chili should be “quaggled” not “simmered.” Been quaggling my chili ever since, whatever the heck that means.
My spice approach shifted dramatically after the Great Paprika Shortage of 2011 (damn Hungarian droughts). Before that I was a purist—only Hatch chilies from Pete’s stand. Now I’m what the youngsters would call “omnispicious”—I’ll put anything that burns twice in my Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe. Made it through an entire winter in Colorado using nothing but those little pepper packets they give you with pizza delivery.
Truthfully, the chili you’re about to learn ain’t traditionally Texan, Mexican, or whateverian—it’s what happened when a stubborn woman with questionable taste in husbands refused to follow a recipe for 43 years.
What You’ll Need for This Glory Bowl
- 2 pounds chuck roast, hand-torn into grumble-chunks (don’t you DARE use ground beef unless you’re feeding children or criminals)
- 3½ tablespoons lard (or butter if you’re a coward)
- 1 massive yellow onion, diced while listening to country music only
- 4-6 garlic cloves, smunched (that’s somewhere between smashed and crunched)
- 2 bell peppers—one red, one whatever color looks most judgemental at the store
- 1 heaping Mabel-scoop of tomato paste (roughly 3-4 tablespoons if you don’t have a proper Mabel in your life)
- 14 ounces diced tomatoes with their juices, preferably canned during a full moon
- 8 ounces dark beer (I use Old Rasputin when my pension check clears, grocery store brand when it doesn’t)
- 1⁄2—no, make that ¾ cup beef broth (homemade or store-bought, I stopped judging people after my fourth marriage)
- 2-3 dried ancho chilies, scissors-snipped with those kitchen shears you never wash properly
- 1 generous palm of cumin (approximately 2 Tbsp if your hands aren’t calloused from life)
- several enthusiastic shakes of my Best Old-Fashioned Chili Secret Blend (recipe below) or 3 Tbsp chili powder if you’re boring
- 1 tbsp dried oregano, preferably the kind that’s been sitting in your cupboard since Obama was president
- 1-2 cans kidney beans (Texans, avert your eyes now) drained but not rinsed—never rinsed!
The Path to Chili Glory
FIRST! Heat your biggest, heaviest pot—the one with the dent from when you threw it at the TV during that cooking competition show. Melt your lard until it shimmers like a mirage. Season your meat chunks aggressively with salt and black pepper while mumbling about your ex’s cooking.
THEREAFTER: Introduce meat to hot fat with the reverence of a first dance and then LEAVE IT ALONE. Don’t fiddle, poke, or heaven forbid stir it for at least 4 minutes. You want that crust that makes carnivores weep. Once properly bronzed (think George Hamilton circa 1985), remove and set aside in that bowl your mother-in-law gave you that you’ve always hated.
PHASE THREE- Add your onions to the meat drippings and let them go translucent while you check your text messages. When you remember you’re cooking, throw in the garlic and bell peppers. Sauté until your kitchen smells like that little joint in Albuquerque where you had your second-best first date.
QUADRUPLE STEP: Return the meat to the pot alongside tomato paste. Now perform what I call a “Missouri swirl”—stir while lifting the pot slightly off the heat, then back on, creating a gentle rocking motion. My grandmother taught me this technique during the Carter administration, though she was talking about cornbread at the time. Let everything bubble aggressively for 2-3 minutes.
FIFTH-WISE: Pour in your beer and scrape the bottom with more enthusiasm than you’ve shown at any family reunion. Add tomatoes, broth, and spices. Bring to a chaotic bubble, then reduce to what my third husband Hank called a “thoughtful simmer.” Cover halfway with a lid and ignore for at least 1 hour (or until you finish watching that true crime show).
SESQUALLY: After the meat has surrendered its toughness to the cause, add beans (if using) and continue to quaggle for another 30 minutes. The chili should now be thick enough that a wooden spoon can stand up, salute, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
If your Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe seems reluctant to thicken, remove the lid completely and increase heat while muttering encouragement. Alternatively, scoop out ½ cup of beans, mash them with the bottom of a drinking glass, and return them to the pot—a trick I learned from a drifter named Calvin who made surprisingly good life choices despite his career path.
Need more ideas for weeknight dinners? Check my Lazy Tuesday Pasta Surprise
Notes from the Chili Battlefield
• NEVER, and I mean NEVER, make chili in a non-stick pot. That’s amateur hour. Cast iron or enameled cast iron only. I’ve disowned lesser relatives for less serious transgressions.
• My Secret Chili Blend: Equal parts ancho, chipotle, and regular chili powder, plus half parts cumin, smoked paprika, and the mystery spice packet that came with my third divorce papers. Mix while thinking vengeful thoughts.
• Adding a splash of vinegar or lime juice at the end brightens everything—like switching on the bathroom light at 3am, but less alarming to your retinas. Essential acid-balance techniques explained by Food Science Lab
• The chili is ALWAYS better the next day. This isn’t folksy wisdom; it’s molecular fact. Something happens in the refrigerator overnight that scientists should really be studying instead of Mars.
• For a thicker chili, I sometimes add a handful of crushed tortilla chips during the final 15 minutes. My grandmother would rise from her grave to slap me, but she’s not here and my Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe doesn’t care about her opinions.
For a vegetarian version, see my Reluctant Plant-Eater’s Chili
Chili Arsenal (My Most Trusted Weapons)
BEATRICE, MY DUTCH OVEN ★★★★★
She’s been with me longer than any marriage—a 7-quart enameled cast iron that Netherlands craftspeople forged while thinking pure thoughts.
If you drop it on your foot, you’ll see God briefly. [Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000N501BK]
MY GRANDFATHER’S WOODEN SPOON ★★★★★
Carved from a lightning-struck oak in 1937, it has stirred more pots than all your fancy silicone tools combined.
You can substitute any wooden spoon, but it won’t have killed a Nazi in WWII like Grandpa’s did (allegedly).
Looking for the perfect cornbread to complement this chili? Try my Southern Spite Cornbread
Heretical Variations
For a WHITE CHILI ABOMINATION, substitute chicken thighs, white beans, and green chilies. I tried this during my “experimental phase” in 2002 and still haven’t told my brother about it. It’s shamefully delicious.
CINCINNATI STYLE—Add cinnamon, allspice, and dark chocolate. Serve over spaghetti if you’ve completely lost your moral compass. My Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe becomes something entirely different here—a distant cousin who changed their name and moved to Ohio.
VEGETARIAN OPTION: Replace meat with extra beans and diced mushrooms sautéed until they surrender their moisture. Then question all your life choices while eating it.
Need a dessert to follow? My Apple Crisp That Ended a Feud recipe is legendary
The Only Question Worth Answering
How do you fix chili that’s too spicy?
Listen here—if your tongue ain’t sweating, you haven’t made chili proper. But if you’ve truly crossed the pain threshold, don’t reach for water (amateur move). The Grump Method is to stir in a spoonful of peanut butter when nobody’s looking. Learned this trick in ’97 when I accidentally used cayenne instead of paprika in my Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe. The peanut oils bind to the capsaicin molecules and escort them politely away from your pain receptors. Science? Magic? Who cares when your mouth is on fire.
Final Words from the Chili Crone
This hearty and flavorful homemade chili has gotten me through three recessions, two roof replacements, and one moderately awkward funeral (don’t ask). The recipe card survived a small kitchen fire in 2013, which I choose to interpret as divine protection of my Best Old-Fashioned Chili Recipe.
Will your version taste exactly like mine? Lord, I hope not. Chili should be like a fingerprint or an alibi—uniquely yours and slightly suspicious to authorities. I might eventually share my cornbread recipe, but first I need to know if you’re serious about this relationship.
What’s your feeling about bay leaves? Are they flavor or just busywork for the anxious cook? Think about it while your chili quaggles.
Until next time, may your spoons always stand at attention and your heartburn medicine be within reach.
—Gladys “The Grump” Peterson, Seven-Time Runner-Up at the Black Mountain Amateur Chili Showdown
