Bison and Bean Chili*

Ingredients:

2 TBSP olive oil

2# ground bison

1 15.5 oz can of red kidney beans OR chickpeas, rinsed and drained

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 large yellow onion, peeled and chopped

1 green bell pepper seeded and chopped OR 1 ancho pepper seeded and chopped

2 TBSP flour

1 28 oz can diced tomatoes with juice OR 7 large tomatoes peeled and chopped

1 16 oz can tomato sauce

1 cup water, plus more as needed

¼ tsp salt

¼ tsp ground black pepper

1 TBSP unsweetened baking cocoa

2 TBSP chili powder

½ tsp smoked Serrano chili powder OR ¼ tsp habanero chili flakes (or less) for heat

Instructions:

1. Heat a large pot on the burner on medium heat, add the olive oil.  When the olive oil is shimmering, but not smoking, add the bison.  Sauté the meat until it’s almost done.
2. Add the garlic, onion, and green pepper.  Continue to cook until the onion is translucent.
3. Whisk together the flour and water, then add the slurry to the pot, stirring to incorporate.
4. Add the tomatoes, tomato sauce, and all the spices, stirring constantly.
5. Bring pot to the boil, then turn the heat down until chili is just simmering on the stove.
6. Let the chili simmer uncovered, stirring every ten minutes or so, until the tomato and tomato sauce break down, changing in color from bright red to dark brick red.  This may take up to 70 minutes.  Add water to the chili to keep the volume about the same as when the simmering started.  DO NOT let the chili dry out or stick to the bottom of the pot.
7. Once the color change has occurred, (ensuring the acids have cooked out of the tomatoes) taste the chili.  Add salt, pepper, or chili powder as needed to balance the flavors.
8. Add the beans or chickpeas to the pot, stirring to combine.  Keep the heat on until the beans reach the same temperature as the chili, perhaps 15 minutes, stirring frequently.
9. Serve chili hot, with your shredded cheese and chip of choice as a garnish.

Tips and Tricks

Peeling fresh tomatoes isn’t a giant headache if you know how to deglove them.  Fill a small saucepan ¾ full with water and bring it to rolling boil.  Fill a larger bowl ¾ full with ice water (cubes and all).  Put each tomato in the boiling water for a minute, submerging with a spoon if necessary, then place each tomato in the ice bath for ninety seconds.  The tomato skin should split and remove with ease.

The green pepper added to this chili could be any large fleshy green pepper.  Anchos are a bit smoky, bell peppers are sturdy but plain, a large Anaheim would add more heat.  Do what works for you.

This chili can be spicy or just savory, but the cheese should complement it.  If the chili is spicy, and you want to mellow it out, use charp cheddar cheese.  If the dish needs a little kick instead, pepper jack cheese works well.

You can garnish this chili with lime chips if you want, ALaw.  No one will judge you.

*This recipe adapted from one in Killer Chili by Stephanie Anderson (from a recipe provided by the Cougar Ranch Bed and Breakfast Lodge in Missoula, Montana).  It’s not the same thing, but it’s where I started from.  Credit where credit is due.

Life, Death, and Pizza: An Argument for Cooperation

By Kevin S. Mahoney

          “Mister Wolfe says we never get to the why of anything.”  So intoned possibly the best narrator of detective fiction ever devised, Rex Stout’s Archie Goodwin.  I forget which novella he says that.  Having read them all, certain details blur.  But it has that blend of snarky omniscience that Wolfe maddeningly displays with regularity when he sees something in a murder case that no one else does, and calmly solves the case.

          That idea stuck in my head, is still there.  I don’t know if I believe it, which practically proves the point.  If I don’t know what I believe to be true, what certainty exists?  It’s possible that everyone just feels their way along, every moment of every day.  It’s not quite fate, but it’s not pure free will either.  And pretty chaos and flinty pragmatism are wound together, indistinguishable and therefore inseparable.

          Yet I believe in and practice altruism.  The form it takes varies.  I might hold a door.  I have given directions around my city to clueless tourists countless times.  Sometimes I write a check to a charity.  Usually the opportunity drops into my lap, and I throw up my hands and give the universe a nudge in what I perceive as its intended course, because it seemed like the thing to do at the time.  I don’t go looking for it.

          Robert Twigger, British author and veteran of the world’s most difficult martial arts course, learned during that year long trial that there were two types of people (both students and teachers) involved in it: the monk types who wanted to make the path of success clearer and easier for those who came after them, and the hard boys who figured the difficulty should be passed along, as it adds character.  I agree with that division just as strongly as I do with Mr. Wolfe, and I know I am one of the monks.  The world is difficult enough.  So if I see a situation developing that mirrors one that has gone sideways in my own life, I am compelled to put my hand on the tiller and keep the bow of the world above water.

          I was nearly excommunicated once.  For the non-Catholics out there (which statistically is almost everybody, which is fine) a moment of explanation: excommunication is the denial of salvation of a parishioner by direct intervention of the clergy.  The flip side of the Catholic concept of confession, if a person fucks up badly enough the priesthood can come to the decision that he or she isn’t fit for heaven.  Once thrown out of the Church, conduct in life past that point becomes immaterial.  Go directly to HELL, do not pass Go, do not collect any further communion wafers.

          To be fair, it was an accident.  And neither I nor the nun who proofread my blasphemous remarks were in our right minds.  But I said what I said and wrote what I wrote, so I take full responsibility.

          I wrote the eulogy for a young priest who had served my first college.  He died in the early hours of Christmas day, twenty odd years ago.  He had held a midnight mass at a nearby church, then fell asleep at the wheel driving home.  I got back from Christmas break to flyers that didn’t make sense no matter how many times I read them, and probably still wouldn’t if I had continued to be religious.  I found the nun who had run the campus ministry with him, and after she broke the horrible news, she asked me to be a part of his service.  I had been involved in Sunday mass almost two years at that point, reading and giving communion, and I couldn’t say no.  I have no real singing talent, and I don’t play an instrument.  She gave me the only other piece of the service that was available.

         At first look, this seems like two people making interlocked bad decisions.  But it wasn’t wholly unreasonable.  I had been an altar boy all through grade school and served in many weddings and funerals.  I knew the format of the eulogy, and I knew the man who had died, more than some strange imported priest, who would have doubtless delivered something far more generic.  And I sweated that speech.  I wanted everyone to know what made Father Mike different from all the stodgy, dour, senior citizen priests I had been raised by.  And in crafting the best send off for Father Mike I could, I overlooked the first runner-up rule of speechwriting: know your audience.

          Halfway through explaining how fun, and relatable, and warm, and cheering Father Mike was, I looked up from my notes to see two plus rows of incredibly insulted priests.  If any one of them had been armed with holy fire, or some other decorum preserving weapon, I would have been dead already.  Still at the lectern, I did the only thing I could think of; I blamed the nun for setting me up.  She and I laughed, and then I finished reading.  I don’t remember blushing through the remainder of the service, but I must have.  I’m not a monster.

          That extreme experience has stuck with me the entire second half of my life.  So when I found out that someone a bunch of my idols knew and loved had died prematurely, and quite a few of them were stressed and nervous about their roles in his send-off, I saw a tiller than needed steadying.  There were some complications.  I only know my idols digitally.  I didn’t know the man who died at all.  And his memorial was on the other side of the country, three time zones away.

          Courage takes strange forms when required.  The memorial was a ticketed event.  The schedule was made public on social media.  I knew where people would be, when they would be there, and having been in their shoes, I knew what kind of boost might help.  I bought enough pizza to feed all the performers and had it delivered backstage.  I told no one in advance.  It is still easier to ask forgiveness than permission, even in Seattle.

          I was happy to learn that the food got there and was well received.  I don’t think anyone would have blown it as badly as I almost did two decades ago.  It felt really good to know that I made a horrible high stress situation a little easier.  Life might be a mess, a flailing chain of events holding everyone hostage.  But that doesn’t prevent bravery, compassion, and the delivery of surprise gourmet pizza.  Be the slice you want to see in the world.

Special Notes:

• This is the first post of 2018.  I ignored the blog last year, due to Trump angst.
• This post was composed to TMBG's new album I Like Fun.  It's great, go buy it.
• The Robert Twigger book is Angry White Pyjamas.  It too, is excellent.    

          

Scene from a Rerview Mirror, my effort at Wordplay Season 2, Episode Two

Scene from a Rearview Mirror

By Kevin S. Mahoney

 

          I didn’t have to stop for him.  My light was off.  I was just a few miles from the shop.  My fare sheet was full enough that I’d be taking a good haul home.  I’d looked the back seat over when I stopped for gas and coffee, and it was free of both puke and dropped cell phones.  The hand-off would have been seamless.

But there was enough light over him to see his shiner.  And there was half a sleeve caught in the edge of his suitcase.  His shocked face shone in the mercury vapor lamp, his stubble casting a shadow down his neck.  I couldn’t tell if he was in trouble or merely running from it before I passed him by.

The light turned red at the corner.  I stopped.  He started towards me.  He wasn’t running, but he wasn’t moving with any dignity either.  The single suitcase pulled him off center, but he squared his shoulders and was trying so hard.  The light changed.

I took my foot off the brake.  I was about to signal left and get out of there, when his hand found the latch on the passenger’s side rear door.  The door opened, but he didn’t pile in like the drunks normally do, he just ducked his head in and tried to find my eyes in the mirror.

“I have money,” he said.  “I just need a ride across town.”

His voice cracked on the word ride.  It wasn’t panic, not quite yet, but I could hear his breath whistling in his throat.  His adrenaline must be pumping pretty hard to make him sound so young.  I waved him into the backseat. 

He slid his suitcase over behind me and sat down.  I turned my signal off and pulled away from the intersection.  I was going to give him a minute to think.  Then, the back window exploded all over us.

          “What the hell is this?!” I said.  I was accelerating, straining to outdistance whoever had it in for him, my eyes switching to the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead.  There was an intersection in the distance; I made for it, even though I couldn’t see anyone following the car.

          “She said it was mine.  She just dropped it on me over dinner when I noticed she wasn’t drinking.  When I told her I didn’t believe her, she hit me.  Right in the face.  After that, she came at me with the table lamp.  I got her to calm down.  I promised her we’d talk about it in the morning, like adults.  But I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t.  So when she finally started to snore, I got up as quietly as I could and packed what I could get to without making any noise.”

          I didn’t know what to believe.  I guess it didn’t matter.  We were going to an airport, a train station, or maybe a friend’s house.  But we were going to find an ATM first.  There was no way I was paying to replace that window myself.

Miscellany:

• This is my attempt at exposition as per the video here.  I think Miss Harper's videos are great fun, and while I don't usually do the challenges, I thought I might try this one.  The phrase I based the above on was, "I could have stopped at any time".
• This piece was written using my Pandora Neil Young Station and Guatemalan coffee.
• I used both the infodump (the passenger) and incluing (the driver) in this piece.
• Once again, comments are welcome.  My email is thesagest77@gmail.com and my twitter handle is @TheSagest.  Please forward all praise or gripes.

         

         

 

The Flying Snowman, Mordor, The No Prize, and Hulk’s Teeth

by Kevin S. Mahoney

 

            The much better writer than I, John Scalzi, invented a term for the thing in a fictional work that throws your disbelief out of kilter and takes your head out of a story.  He called it a Flying Snowman.  It’s a neat concept.  He has a great blog post about it here.  He also tweeted something about the Hulk’s teeth being a FS for him in Marvel Comics. 

One of the Missing: Curious Liquids Café

        

        I live in a suburb of Boston, Massachusetts.  I have lived in this area, minus a short stint in upstate NY, my entire life.  I have seen a lot change in thirty plus years.  Most of the changes are grand.  Our museums got bigger and better.  We lost our ugly over street highway in favor of a tunnel system and more parks.  Even Fenway Park has made steps towards modernization.  Still, sometimes, I realize I miss some feature of the city that’s long been gone.  When that happens, and I remember to write it up, you’ll get a story about it under this heading.*

Secrets of the World I've Seen

            There are a million nooks and crannies in the world.  There are caves and alleyways, cubbies and caverns, causeways and cairns.  People see the same sights every day, and become inured to them.  But some of us pay attention, some of the time.  And we learn things about where we live and what’s around.

Blizzard Friendly Post

The Lake of Dissolved Effigies

By Kevin S. Mahoney

            It was one of those things no one thought about, like the lint under the refrigerator, or who cut their barber’s hair.  Thousands were made, every year, in any location that would support the art form.  Generation schooled generation on the process, families united in cold purpose.  Every form was unique.  Each artifact was personalized, sculpted by its creators from their environment.  Each building block was unlike every other one, from the macroscopic to the microscopic level.  Molecules were connected, melding from the warmth of the people, changing according to their whims, each form distinct and temporary.