Chili You Can Trust

What comes to mind when you consider making a recipe of Chili? I am fascinated with the opinions that surround this meal in a bowl. For some of you, it is probably a bit of this and a bit of that, and you are confident the outcome will feed the family. For others of you, perhaps you are loyal to a time-honored family recipe that is now iconic.

One group of my friends insists on adding cumin; a different constituency would never even consider including celery. Some households serve Chili over rice, while others consider that sacrilegious.

All this fuss over Chili…

My mind returns to Cold War days in Poland when Chili was a complicated project. First, Larry would have to drive to a village, meet a farmer, select a steer, wait for the farmer to kill and butcher the steer, and then drive huge slabs of beef home in the trunk of our car.

This black market process sustained us, since food shortages and government regulations against the private farmer prevented ground beef from even appearing in the stores. And sometimes our family just needed a bowl of Chili (not to mention a hamburger, but this is not about hamburgers.)

The clandestine drive to the village and back to the city meant Larry would arrive home after the children were in bed, and he and I would then labor long hours creating ground beef. We unloaded the car in the garage, and slab-by-slab hauled the would be Chili into our tiny kitchen. Armed with cutting boards and butcher knives, we donned aprons and set to work.

Using a small German made food grinder the size of a one-cup measure, my husband and I ground and froze one chunk of fresh meat after another. Arduous, grueling, tiring hours of work stood between us and a bowl of Chili. But we managed.

Since those Communist days, I have landed my own favorite Chili recipe. It is not from one cookbook (though Betty Crocker is represented), one individual, or even one program on the Food Network. Rather, it is an amalgamation of my own taste testing preferences from across a variety of sources. This combination and these proportions will allow you to take the guesswork out of the process and opinions of others. I call this recipe:

Chili You Can Trust

Ingredients:

2 lbs. ground beef

2 cans tomato sauce (16 oz. each)

2 cans petite-diced tomatoes (16 oz. each)

2 cans Red Kidney beans undrained (16 oz. each)

2 cans Pinto beans undrained (16 oz. each)

Onion, extra large, diced

Celery, 3 long stalks chopped

Garlic 2 t. fresh (buy the small jar of diced garlic in the produce section)

Worchester sauce (2 T.)

McCormick Chili Spice Packet (original,1.25 0z.)

Cumin 1 t. (2t. won’t hurt)

Sugar 1 t. 

Instructions:

Brown the ground meat with onion, celery, and garlic in a large skillet or Dutch Oven.

Drain

While the meat drains, combine all the other ingredients in the same Dutch Oven

Simmer

Return the ground meat to the pot containing the other ingredients and bring to a low simmer

Afterwards, pour into a crock pot and cook for 6 hours on low.

Serve with assorted toppings of cheddar cheese and sour cream. Of course, cornbread is essential, but I will save that for another time. I confidently believe you will enjoy this hearty recipe of Chili.

Living With Eternal Intentionality™

Does your Chili recipe have a history? If so, please share the story with us.

This Day in History

If you Google© “This Day in History”, fascinating facts emerge from the page. Scientific breakthroughs, athletic accomplishments, and ingenious inventions from around the globe—and down through the ages—stand to capture one’s attention.

But I awoke today with the realization of my own personal This Day in History. Mine will not make the news, and it will not reach the printed page, but the reality is every bit written on my heart. Today, February 20th, 1977, I landed on a new continent that I would, for 33 years, call home.

In preparing to follow God’s supernatural call on our lives, (How Could You?!), Larry, our seventeen-month-old daughter, and I packed and left a land and family we loved dearly.  No turning back….Details of our deep feelings remain fresh.

The dramatic days leading up to our farewell in 1977 were tense and emotional ones for our families. Grasping at each chance to make the most of our minutes, we attended a livestock show, a rodeo, and a church Valentine’s party. The clock ticked as we struggled to shove everything into our eleven pieces of luggage. 

Our day of departure dawned, and a somber attitude surrounded the inevitable drive to the airport—last hugs and last words ensued. At the moment of letting go, Larry and I steeled our emotions, turned, and walked away. Leaving the gate area, we could only wonder when we would see these loved ones again. Only God knew.

That journey down the jet way took us from the familiar into the unknown. Global communication in the 70’s did not include Face Time or Skype, and international post took endless days.

I remember pretending to be brave.

As planned, we stayed overnight in New York, and the next day, on Saturday the 19th of February, dear friends drove us to JFK airport. Their son and our daughter were the same age, crib buddies we called them. This departure was also saturated with goodbyes. Again the stark reality confronted us: we were leaving; they were staying. On the curb, we stood and waved as their van pulled away.

For the transatlantic journey, our little girl wore a blue and red outfit complete with white lace socks and lace up shoes. We placed her on the check-in counter, and made a photo with the TWA Airline logo in the background.

Finally alone, a unique sweetness enveloped us; we were a family, and we made a team. Moreover, God was in this and God was with us. His marvelous, supernatural grace kicked in.

Airline personnel assigned us two seats on a three-person bulkhead row for the overnight flight to Vienna, Austria. Larry had the aisle, and I sat in the middle. Our toddler alternated between our laps. The stranger on our row, a Swiss businessman in the window seat to my right, was going home. He could hardly wait to be reunited with his wife and girls. The irony of the situation struck me—he was returning home and we were leaving home. This thought stayed with me the whole of the long transatlantic flight.

Our scheduled stopover in Switzerland was brief, and we proceeded in the air to Vienna. Now it was Sunday morning February 20th, 1977. Exhausted and not knowing any better, we put our toddler on the floor so that all three of us could nap. This made the flight attendant irate. Her scolding awoke us abruptly,  “You must take her seriously! You must take her seriously!” (She was right. We were just young, inexperienced, and desperately tired. Our 33 year journey had only just begun.)

With the rising of the early morning sun, our aircraft touched down in Vienna. Clad in brand new, warm down-filled coats, (Larry’s was royal blue, mine was burnt orange, and our daughter’s was bright yellow), we walked off the plane and into a marvelous, grace-filled life. Shirley Hinkson, with her children Jon and Joi, met us with enthusiastic waves and a bouquet of coral roses.

Ed and Coralee Murray and their family of four welcomed us into their home for our first few weeks. They introduced us to the spectacular new habit of drinking rich Viennese coffee from freshly ground beans.

A chiming coo-coo clock and hearty meals around their red checked Austrian table marked our initial days. Within just a brief few weeks we would make our first foray by train to the world behind the Iron Curtain. Soon, that Cold War world would become our world, our home. 

But those are other days in history. This is about just one: This Day in History…February 20, 1977.

Thank you, God. You were every bit Present. Though I dwell on the far side of the sea, even there Your hand will guide me, Your right hand will hold me fast (Psalm 139:9-10).

Living With Eternal Intentionality™

When is the last time you paused to remember This Day in History from your own life?

How does this reflection highlight the goodness of God to you?

My Siberian Gift, An Unexpected Treasure

Even now I gaze upon the volume with reverence. How many hands before mine touched these 153 precious pages?

We made our way down narrow concrete steps to the church’s basement room, and took our seats on wooden benches. Squeezed shoulder to shoulder amidst Russian church leaders, Larry and I gave our attention to the host. A brief program of introductions preceded our food being served.

Following the pleasantries, a cultural gift was presented to Larry. Then, it seemed the moment was right for ushering in steaming bowls of Siberian comfort food.

Wrong.

Slowly, our Siberian colleague made his way around the tables and headed in my direction with a gift just for me. Startled, I gave him my full attention as he placed into my hands what looked like a journal wrapped in nondescript white paper. The only color came from a blue satin bookmark. A moment of awkward silence hung in the air; at first, I did not know what I had been given.

Then, it dawned on me, and the moment of realization took my breath away. This was no ordinary journal.

What I held was a primitive volume of a book from the Cold War dark days of ruthless Communist control. The outer handmade jacket created a disguise, which concealed the true identity of the inner contents. Slowly, with awe, I opened the book and ran my fingers across the onion skin pages. This was a gem. With emotion in his voice, our host said, “We gave you a Russian translation of Josh McDowell’s book More Than a Carpenter.”

Speechless, I reflected on the reality. Some person (or persons) risked their life to translate and type, one word at a time, the manuscript I had just been given.

This clandestine translation of Josh’s book, which focuses on the Person of Jesus Christ, was a monument to the untold darkness and suffering for the church. Multiple carbon copies—hammered out by hand on an old fashioned mechanical typewriter—created a resource for Russian believers otherwise denied such Christian literature.

Questions of How…Who…What…When…crowded my thinking.

How many hands before mine touched these 153 precious pages? Who completed the translation from English to Russian? What brave soul typed the multiple carbon copies to be secretly distributed? What risks did entire households face for possessing such a typewriter and its resulting publication? What persecution awaited them if they were found to possess a copy? When was this last held by a stranger, a saint, I will one day meet in heaven? The answers to my questions would remain a mystery. However, there was no mystery of the fact that I held a gift which far exceeded its material value.

My world took such a book for granted. One only needed to walk into a Christian bookstore and make the purchase. But no such opportunity afforded my fellow believers throughout the dark decades of Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev. Yet God raised up a brave, faith-filled courageous army of His warriors to do His work and provided necessary resources.

Still today, when my eyes gaze on My Siberian Gift, An Unexpected Treasure, (complete with its blue satin bookmark), my faith is inspired. I realize that my life intertwines with the lives of unknown pilgrims in the frozen fields of Siberia, and with the realization, my heart is strangely warmed. "O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments, and His ways past finding out!" (Romans 11:33, KJV).

Living With Eternal Intentionality™
When has God surprised you with a gift which far exceeds its material value?