The weather said 42 but felt like 18.
Mae had taken the last of the gloves and my coat still smells like burnt sugar from last week’s pie situation. I wasn’t going to cook. Honestly, I wasn’t going to do anything except maybe eat peanut butter off a spoon and watch that weird lamp flicker. But then I remembered I had ground beef. And one lonely jalapeño. And Martha’s beef chili had been taped to the side of the fridge since October—curled at the edge like it wanted to be forgotten.
So I made it. Because stirring something felt like proof I was still here.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness builds it like a slow crescendo.
Starts with onions and garlic—of course. Adds jalapeño, then layers the heat with chili powder, cocoa, and tomato paste. It smells like a memory you almost remember. The beef goes in first, then out, then back again. Simmered with fire-roasted tomatoes and broth until it thickens just enough to feel like winter might be survivable.
She finishes with scallions. Like always. Some cold green flourish to prove she’s above the storm.
It’s not showy. But it’s structured. Predictable. Like the blueprint of a storm cellar.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have scallions.
Used the sad end of a red onion and soaked it in vinegar like I meant to.
I also added a spoonful of brown sugar. Not because Martha said to—but because I needed something round and sweet to balance the sharpness. And I used beef stock instead of chicken. Felt wrong. Did it anyway.
Also—I stirred too hard and cracked my wooden spoon. The one with the burn mark shaped like Maine.
It splintered at the tip but I kept going. Because what else was I going to do?
How It Actually Happened in My Kitchen
The beef browned in my old Dutch oven—the one with the dent from the night I said enough and left.
Still works. Still wobbles when you stir too fast.
Mae walked in halfway through the onions softening and said it “smelled like soup that wants to be spaghetti.” I think she meant it as a compliment. Maybe.
The garlic caught just slightly—right when I leaned too far into the fridge looking for the tomato paste.
(Why is it always behind the mustard?)
The cocoa powder went in and I panicked—because for a moment, it smelled like dessert.
Like Christmas-before-the-divorce dessert. Like vanilla and too many expectations.
But then the tomatoes hit and the sharp came back. And I breathed again.
I tasted it before it was done.
Too early.
Too hot.
Burned the roof of my mouth a little.
Didn’t care.
A Few Things I Learned
You can tell when chili’s ready by the way it thickens at the edges, not the middle.
It gets heavier, not just hotter.
And Martha’s right—cocoa does something deep and quiet you can’t name. Like background cello.
Also—Mae will eat anything if you call it a “bowl dinner” and let her top it herself.
What I Did With the Extras
We didn’t use bowls.
Just spoons and the pot between us on the counter.
She picked out the onions. I let her. I picked out nothing. I needed all of it.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. Probably. Especially on the days I feel like fog in a coat.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The spoon’s still cracked.
The air’s still cold.
But I’ve got leftovers. And the window stopped rattling.
If you want something softer, I made a pimento cheese bake once that nearly healed a whole week.
FAQs
Yeah, and it actually tastes better a few days later. just give it time to thaw—don’t microwave it into rubber.
Depends on the jalapeño and your mood. mine had some kick, but nothing mae couldn’t handle. (she did make a face, but kept eating.)
I mean, no one’s watching you. but it does something weirdly magical. makes it taste deeper, like it’s been thinking about things.
Sure. turkey, mushrooms, lentils if you’re feeling brave. it’ll be different, but still dinner.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Beef Chili Recipe
Description
Made it out of muscle memory and mood. Kept me warm enough to sit still.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Brown the beef: threw the meat into the pot before it was hot enough. it steamed instead of seared. too late. kept going. broke it up with a wooden spoon that’s slightly charred on one side. cooked till it looked like something that could hold flavor. drained it on a plate lined with junk mail. kept 1 spoonful of fat, maybe more.
- Soften the base: added onions, garlic, and that stubborn little jalapeño. stirred like i was trying to forget something. the smell hit fast. like heat and home and something else i couldn’t name. salted it. maybe too much. don’t care.
- Build the flavor: dumped in chili powder, cocoa, and tomato paste. it clumped. scraped and mashed it with the spoon like it owed me money. smelled weird for a second—like cake and campfire. let it go dark at the edges before touching it again.
- Bring it all together: added the tomatoes and broth, then the beef. stirred. watched it swirl. brought it to a boil. lowered it when mae walked in and said, “what’s burning?” told her nothing. let it simmer half-covered while i sat down for once. kitchen got quiet. chili didn’t.
- Serve like it saved you: added sour cream to mine. mae refused it. red onion on top—pickled just barely. ate from mismatched bowls with the news on low.