I was just about to say the same thing!!Real chili has neither beans or tomatoes. I have a fantastic chili recipe that is a family secret. But if I told you, I'd have to shoot you.
I am kinda in the same boat, Firemen never reveal their secret chili recipe, its a firehouse mystery. We always enjoy a good chili especially when its cold outside.Real chili has neither beans or tomatoes. I have a fantastic chili recipe that is a family secret. But if I told you, I'd have to shoot you.
Oh God that sounds good, even the nutmeg. Mom wins again.My mom almost always had an old heavy cast iron pot of something simming low 'n slow on the stove back burner. And chili was often cooking in that pot. The idea of putting beans in -her- chili is just plain sacrilegious. You could put them in yours, but she wouldn't allow it was chili. And wouldn't eat it, either. That was almost always on the chili cook-off list of rules, and usually Rule One: "No Beans!". The recipe to chili is right in the name, or the full name, chili con carne. Stewed chili peppers with meat. Not much else is really needed.
Mom wasn't at all picky about the meat that went into it, usually it was the cheapest cuts in the butcher case, often a day or two past the "sell by" date. And she wasn't above road-kill, either. If Dad caught a couple of rattlers, they got cut up and thrown into the pot, as did a squirrel or an armadillo when it wasn't wary enough. More than one pot had turtle added. Don't want to guess about some of her other mystery chili meats. Nothing got wasted, though, firm rule with her.
Mom had two great secrets to her chili cooking: #1 was beer, just a plain standard lager. She loved Shiner, but even Pabst Blue Ribbon got put to use. She always steamed the meat with beer rather than browning it in oil. Often several bottles went into the pot, and several went into her, too! Good chili is not a sober food. Secret #2 was the several grindings of nutmeg she'd add near the end of the cooking. It tempered the chili peppers so they weren't so blasting hot, but still had all the flavor. And added a bit of its own hum to the chili experience. Nutmeg was her magic pixie dust of cooking, and was the great secret behind her special spaghetti sauce.
She actually had one more secret, although it would have never occurred to her that it would be one. She would cook the chili to a certain point determined by its color and consistency, not flavor. It would taste good, but not great. She would put the lid on the pot and set it on a cold burner. And let it sit overnight. Her chili never was put in the ice box. Next day she'd turn the burner low and simmer the chili back up. And then it was great! Just a tad of fermentation to add to the taste profile, I guess.