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Champaign-Urbana's crème de la crème invite Smile Politely into their kitchen to find out what these local notables are cooking when they aren't out doing their thing – whatever it may be – in our towns. Are you a mover or a salt shaker?
A long time ago, I had a girlfriend who was from Texas. Along with a healthy dose of Texas history, she left me with a taste for good Mexican food, including chili. But, at the time, my idea of chili was a seasoning packet, water, some red kidney beans, and hamburger. Little did I know….
She bought a chili kit at the supermarket, we made it, and I was converted. Then we broke up, and I didn’t make chili for awhile. I was always eating someone else’s, or it was canned chili over a hot dog, or, the absolute worst, cafeteria chili.
Fast forward a few years, and I decided to make chili for my (once, current, and future) sweetie. No seasoning packets, no kits, no training wheels. Since then I have tinkered around with this recipe, and have always changed one thing or another. This isn’t really the kind of recipe that calls for specific measures. What you’ve got are ballpark figures. So feel free to adjust things for taste, and like in any good relationship, experiment. You never know what you might like.
—Brandon T. Washington
When I was a kid, my mom would make her famous chili on cold nights, nights of football games, or when one of us requested it! It is still my favorite home-cooked meal when I go to the parents' house, although I discovered last year that she also makes a mean vegetable soup — more on that next time. Hold the lima beans, Mama!
I'd like to report that nothing goes better with Mama's Chili than a peanut butter sandwich (good for dipping — trust me!).
The world would be a better place if more people made their own pie crust. Amaze your friends! No more nasty store-bought crusts! I will share with you my hard-won knowledge, which includes a lot of trial and error, also more than a few pie-crust tantrums, when the stuff just wouldn’t stick together (or come unstuck), and had to be hurled at kitchen walls, accompanied by bestial oaths.
My grandparents were Italian immigrants. They loved food — pasta, prosciutto, roasted chicken and American favorites like apple pie.
One of my grandmother’s specialties was struffoli, a snack or dessert that I loved as a child. I’d describe struffoli as doughnut pieces drizzled with honey and sprinkled with powdered sugar. My grandmother would make the dough, slice it into bite-sized pieces, fry them and then put them in a bowl with honey and sugar. I’d sometimes treat myself to an extra dish of honey.
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