Chili Party

Strike captain Lorin Wertheimer had a great idea for a cheap potluck party: Chili and nothing but. We crammed into his cozy Hollywood apartment on a cold Saturday night and partook of 5 or 6 different kinds of chili. Condiments of cheese, sour cream, chopped scallions and cilantro accompanied. Ditto corn bread, salad and wine and beer. Cheap eats, good company and great conversation. For most of us, Writers Guild members on strike, this is a welcome feast.

I promised to post my recipe. Here it is:

Maria’s Mole-like Chili

l lb stewing beef
1 large onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 tbls olive oil

1 bay leaf
water
2 tbls red wine vinegar

2 30 oz kidney beans , drained and rinsed
(or 2 lbs dry kidney beans soaked overnight)
1 15 oz can diced tomatoes (pulp and juice)

spices:
1/4 tsp dried chili flakes
1/2 tsp whole cumin seeds
1 tsp ground oregano
1 tsp pipian mole powder (if available)
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp cocoa
1/2 tsp sugar or pinch of artificial sweetener

1 6 oz can tomato paste

salt and pepper to taste

Salt and pepper the beef. Quickly brown meat over high heat. Remove meat and drain on paper towels. Lightly brown onions. Add garlic, bay leaf, vinegar and meat to pot. Add enough water to cover meat . Simmer on low heat for 2 hours, adding water to keep meat covered. Stir occasionally.

Add tomatoes and juice to meat. Continue to simmer another 30 minutes.

Remove meat. Discard bay leaf. Add kidney beans and spices to tomato mixture and continue to simmer 20 minutes.

Cut meat into strips. Add back to pot. Stir well with beans and tomatoes.

Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Note: This is a short cut mole sauce -- not meant to compete with the REAL thing which requires 25 plus ingredients. The best mole I know in LA is Patty Zarate's Rosa's Mole (served over chicken) at the Homegirl Cafe in Chinatown. Go eat theirs and let me know what you think. -- MER

Ego Trips

Everything happened the year I turned 40. My boyfriend dumped me for another woman. My literary agent said good-bye. My freelance work dried up completely. Jobless, loveless and repless, I faced that milestone birthday with dread. So, I did the one thing any woman with a shred of self-respect and good humor could do: I went and worked cattle.

I chose a ranch in Arizona halfway between Phoenix and Flagstaff partly because a photo on their web site showed the whole crew – ranch hands and paying guests – sitting around a long dinner table. That is how I wanted to spend my birthday – among strangers over a simple dinner after a hard, dirty day of physical work. Nobody would care how I looked or that I arrived alone. There’d be nothing to talk about other than horses and cows.

It rained on my birthday. Nevertheless, 77 head of cattle had to be branded, inoculated and dehorned. We awoke while it was still dark, grabbed a hearty breakfast around the long table, slapped together some sandwiches for our lunch break and headed for the barn to tack up our horses. For some reason, the ranch’s only visitors that week were all women, including a vet from Australia and two gals from Ireland who’d ditched their husband and boyfriend to experience the American West. Another solo woman, a recent divorcee from Minnesota, completed our crew. About the only thing we all had in common was that we were avid horsewomen who didn’t particularly need a man that week. In fact, the only men on the ranch were the head wrangler and the cook. Nobody planned it that way. It’s just what was.

I had arrived with a mild cold which became a bad cold in a couple of wet days. Still, cowboys don’t call in sick. We gals trudged in the mud, lining up the cows in the chute. One by one, each was held in a clamp while one of us branded and two of us administered inoculations using fat syringes with long needles. Only the gutsiest among us took a turn at clipping off horns of the protesting animals. I kept a pair of those clipped horns – still bloody and smelly, as a souvenir. That evening, we washed up for dinner. The simple ranch fare was topped off with a surprisingly elegant birthday cake: a tower of cream puffs welded together with caramel, known as a Gateau St. Honore. Having a cold, I declined to blow out the candles. My cowgirl buddies did the honors and blew them out for me with the wish that I find whatever I was looking for. It was the best 40th birthday party I could have asked for.

Since then I’ve learned the value the of “ego trips.” I’ve jumped on a plane to Paris on Valentine’s Day instead of staying home to mourn not having a date. I’ve picked up the phone and called a travel agent just moments after being fired. If you’re going to be miserable, go somewhere beautiful if you can afford it -- even if only for a couple of days.. The change of scenery will melt your misery for a while. Giving yourself this gift will go a long way in fortifying your soul for whatever awaits on your return.

These trips can be cheap or expensive as you see fit. And the best thing about going alone is -- it’s all about you. That's the whole point.