It started raining around 3. not the kind of rain that makes you light a candle. the kind that makes you sit in your car an extra five minutes because moving feels stupid.
I wasn’t going to cook. the fridge held one half-rotted zucchini and a sticky jar of something labeled “jam?” in Mae’s handwriting. but then I remembered Martha’s vegetarian chili—the one with chipotle and that suspiciously neat ratio of cans.
It felt like the kind of recipe she’d make in pearls. I made it in a sweatshirt with a hole under the arm. close enough.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version is orderly. like a can parade.
onion and garlic softened just so. cumin and chipotle—no more, no less. one tidy zucchini. tomato paste until it turns “brick red” (her words, not mine). two kinds of beans. two kinds of tomatoes. water. simmer. done.
there’s a grace to it, honestly.
like she imagined someone was watching her cook it.
I wasn’t being watched. unless you count the dog.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have chipotle powder—just smoked paprika and a dried chile I found in the back of the spice drawer that may or may not have been decorative.
I used it anyway.
also added corn. not for flavor, for defiance. I needed something sweet in the mess.
I skipped the water too. forgot, actually.
but the tomatoes were juicy and I like my chili thick enough to stand a spoon in.
Her Highness would hate that.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
the oil went in first. too much. I misjudged the pour.
onion sizzled loud—too loud. garlic followed, but I cut it lazy.
the smell hit me before the memory did.
dad’s hands. garlic-crushed. lemon-rubbed.
I stirred too hard after that.
the cumin clumped. the paprika stained the spoon. the zucchini looked sad but I threw it in.
I let it all cook too long because Mae texted me a picture of her dorm dinner: dry rice and a Kraft single. I laughed. then cried. not for her. for the zucchini.
the tomato paste darkened, like it was brooding.
I dumped in beans, tomatoes, everything at once.
the pot hissed like it knew better.
the Dutch oven still has the dent.
I tapped it with the spoon.
didn’t mean to.
A Few Things I Learned
the corn worked.
the chili was smoky, soft, full.
I didn’t miss the water. I didn’t miss the meat.
I didn’t even miss Mae—until I looked at the spoon and realized it was the one she used to call “the magic stirrer.”
It Was Cold at First. Then It Wasn’t.
stood at the counter. no bowl.
cold, from the fridge.
still good.
What I Did With the Extras
maybe not with the same spoon.
but yes.
Would I Make It Again?
but it could be.
and I’d still want that bowl.
If you want something with more bite, I did a version of Martha’s black bean soup last February that made me sweat—but in a good way.
FAQs
Not really. just smoky. unless you use a dried chile from 2008 like i did—then it bites back a little.
use whatever red thing you’ve got. ketchup in a panic. jarred sauce if it’s not too sweet. skip it entirely if you’re feeling bold. it still works.
This fills you up without it. mae didn’t even ask “where’s the meat?” and she always asks.
she texted “actually good” with a chili emoji. high praise from a college kid eating granola for dinner.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Tomato Soup
- Martha Stewart Sweet Potato Casserole
- Martha Stewart Rib Roast
- Martha Stewart Cheese And Bacon Quiche
- Martha Stewart Asparagus Quiche
Martha Stewart Vegetarian Chili
Description
A bowl that made me cry a little less. and that’s saying something.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the base: started with oil—too much, maybe. pan was too hot, onions hit it and hissed like they were mad. garlic in after, rough chopped, no patience. stirred until the kitchen started smelling like my dad again. paused too long there.
- Add the spice: cumin next. then that dusty chile i crushed with my fingers. paprika, just enough to tint my knuckles. stirred hard. it clumped. didn’t care. salt. pepper. forgot if i’d already added them. added more.
- Soften the veg: zucchini went in looking tired. stirred it like it could come back to life. tomato paste in thick, red as regret. let it go dark—deeper than brick red, maybe closer to dried blood. mae would’ve called it dramatic. she’d be right.
- Build the bowl: dumped in the beans—black, pinto, all of them. both cans of tomatoes. no draining, no fancy order. just the mess in one big pour. added corn because it felt like the kind thing to do. didn’t stir for a minute. just watched.
- Simmer it down: kept it on low heat. let it blup-blup like it was breathing. left the spoon in and leaned on the counter. twenty minutes or maybe more. didn’t time it. didn’t need to. zucchini softened. sauce thickened. i felt a little less frantic.
- Taste and eat: salted again. not because it needed it. because i needed to do something with my hands. scooped it into a bowl i chipped last year. no garnish. no fanfare. warm enough to mean something.