I used to think chili was a mishmash of ground meat, powdered spices, and chopped bell peppers. This is, after all, how everyone made it when I was growing up. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized chili is really a stew. Historically, it's more like Beef Bourguignon than a sloppy joe in that it's made of chunks of meat, vegetables, and a simmering liquid. Sure, the vegetables are chilies, but the core starting point -- slowly braised hunks of meat -- are what make chile and other stews not only similar, but appealing in the first place.

There are many different types of chili and everyone seems to have a favorite. My Texas friends, for instance, say that the whole point of chili is to meld together the smoky taste of dried chilies with slow-cooked meat and that tomatoes and beans have no place in the pot. Others that I know (usually health-conscious people from my home region of Southern California) claim that using beef is too fattening and so they make their chilies with turkey and beans (I try to avoid those dinners). Some people use only whole chiles, while others use only chile powders. Many use fresh peppers while others swear by dried and smoked. And then, of course, there are vegetarian chilies. The variations are limitless. Now I am in no way a Texan, but there's no denying the fact that chili is a Southwestern dish (and that Texas chili is delicious), so I tend to gravitate toward their style more than any other.

So how do you make a great pot of meat chili? Let's break the process down into easy categories:

Meat
Because it's a stew, the most important ingredient in this dish is the meat. When I make my chili, the meat is the star. I like to use 3/4 beef chuck (cut into pieces, not ground) along with 1/4 pork butt. Using only beef is fine, but I find that the subtle addition of a little pork fat intensifies the meat flavors nicely. Another option is to fry up some bacon and then use the bacon fat to cook the beef. But whatever you use, just be sure not to use lean cuts of meat. Let's face it, chili isn't a diet dish and you really do need some fat to give everything the rich flavor you expect. No turkey!

Chiles
There is a world of chiles out there to explore. Co-starring in my own culinary tale are 6 different types of chile peppers, both dried and fresh varieties. While fresh pasillas, Anaheims, serranos, and jalapenos impart a verdant heat, dried anchos and chipotles in adobo add a rich undercurrent of picante smokiness. You can also experiment with a variety of other dried and fresh chiles. Have fun with this. If you go to the right market, you'll find a world of beautiful chiles out there. And don’t worry if you're not a lover of spicy dishes. There are plenty of mild peppers out there worth exploring.

A note on using dried chiles: Now I realize that using real dried chiles can seem intimidating. For years I stared at dried chiles stacked in Mexican grocery stores or in cellophane bags at my regular market, but was afraid to use them. They seemed mysterious and indecipherable, so I stuck with only powdered chiles. Yet once I realized that you just need to heat them in a dry pan and then soak in some water before pureeing, I mustered up the courage to give them a try. Other than being a little embarrassed to find they were so easy to work with, my maiden voyage using dried peppers was uneventful and I've never looked back.

Tomatoes and Beans (To use or not to use…)
So how about those controversial tomatoes and beans? If you're a purist or a true blooded Texan who wants all meat, then by all means skip these in your chili. That said, before making any major decisions, consider that both add great flavor and texture to the dish. I like to first cook up a batch of dried beans, leaving them al dente so they finish cooking in the chili itself. This allows the beans to soak up the flavors of the stew as they finish cooking. The tomatoes then provide a little sweetness to counterbalance the heat and smoky flavors of the chiles. For me, beans and tomatoes add so much flavor and texture that I can't imagine my chili without them. But the beauty of making your own pot of chili is that you get to decide what you like and don't like, so add them if you want.

Liquids
Whether you add beans and tomatoes or just use meat and chiles, you will need some sort of liquid so you can simmer everything. As far as I'm concerned, a mixture of both beer and brewed coffee is essential. Beer's yeast and hops introduce a robust full-bodied taste that joins the rest of the stews flavors nicely, while the coffee provides an undertone that accents the overarching spices in a way that vanilla makes chocolate taste more profound.

Other stuff
And, speaking of chocolate, a whisper of cocoa powder or Mexican chocolate, added at the end, helps mellow and fuse the chili's flavors. I also like to add in some masa harina (finely ground corn used to make tortillas) or just some ground corn meal to thicken things up if the chile is too soupy. You can also add other ingredients, like fresh corn, if you'd like.

Time
Making chili is an all-day affair because the ingredients need time to mature and come together. I let everything simmer for 4-5 hours on the stove. If you want, I'm sure you can use a crock pot, although I've never done this myself. Whatever you do, don't hurry the process because you need all those flavors to mature and come together, and only time can do this.

So that's how you make chili. As with many other dishes, the keys to making a great meal are simply a little patience, along with some quality ingredients -- in this case a variety of chiles and stew-sized chunks of meat. If you follow these guidelines, you'll have your own hearty and smoky pot of chili to be proud of.

Chili

Makes: One large pot of chili

Ingredients:
3 lbs beef chuck cut into 1/4-inch pieces
1 lb pork butt cut into 1/4-inch pieces
2 Tbsp chile powder (I like chile molido, but any mild chile powder is fine)
1 Tbsp cumin
1 tsp salt
3-4 dried ancho chiles (depending on size)
Corn or vegetable oil for sautéing
2/3 of a 7 oz can chipotle chiles in adobo sauce (use 1 full can if you want the dish extra smoky and spicy)
1 large onion chopped
2 cloves garlic minced
1/2 serrano pepper seeded and minced (use the whole pepper if you like your chili spicy)
1 jalapeño seeded and minced
2 pasilla peppers seeded and chopped small
2 Anaheim peppers seeded and chopped small
1 Tbsp ground cumin (freshly toasted seeds ground at home are best but preground is fine)
1/2 tsp all spice
1 tsp dried ground coriander
1/2 - 1 bottle beer
1 cup coffee
1 15 oz can diced tomatoes or 2 cups freshly chopped tomatoes (no seeds)
2 cups freshly cooked beans (kidney, navy, black or pinto are fine)
1/4 cup masa harina or finely ground corn meal (optional)
1 heaping Tbsp cocoa or 1/4 round grated Mexican chocolate

Preparation:

1. The night before you plan on making your chili, chop up your meat and season with the 2 Tbsp chile powder, 1 Tbsp cumin, and 1 tsp salt. Rub the seasoning all over the meat. Set in the refrigerator overnight.
2. In a dry pan (I like to use a medium cast iron pan) heat your ancho chiles on high, turning every 30 seconds or so until the peppers are warmed through and hot. Add enough water to cover the peppers and then cover the pan and let sit for 30 minutes. Drain pan of water and then puree the peppers in a blender or chopper. Set aside. (If you do this the night before, be sure to refrigerate the puree).
3. Heat a large heavy pot (I like to use a cast-iron dutch oven) on medium high heat. When the pot is hot, add in 1 Tbsp oil and then add in enough meat to mostly cover, but not crowd, the pan. Sear meat on all sides and then remove from pan. Repeat (adding in more oil if necessary) until all the meat is browned. Remove all meat from the pan.
4. Add a little more oil to the pan and then sauté your onions and garlic for a few minutes. Add in the chopped peppers (serranos, jalapeno, pasilla and Anaheim) and cook for 2-3 minutes.
5. Add the meat back into the pan (with the vegetables) and then mix in the pureed anchos, chipotles, tomatoes, cooked beans, cumin, all spice, coriander, beer and coffee. You should have enough liquid to just barely cover the meat, but not so much that the meat is swimming in liquid. Add the other 1/2 of the beer if it looks like you need more liquid.
6. Bring the chili to a soft boil and then cover and set the burner to simmer. Stir at least once an hour, more often if your pan has a thin bottom so you don't burn the stew. Let the mixture simmer for 4-5 hours. Add in some salt after a couple of hours as needed.
7. Once all the flavors have melded, add in the chocolate and stir in.
8. If the chili seems too soupy, or if it's a little too spicy, add in 1/4 cup masa harina or finely ground corn meal that has been mixed with a little water or beer to make a slurry. Mix in thoroughly.
9. Serve with corn bread and whatever sides sound good.

Possible chili sides

Cotija, cheddar or Jack cheese
Corn chips
Corn tortillas
Corn nuts
Black or green olives
Green onions
White chopped onions
Sour cream
Fritos
Cilantro
Avocado
Sliced jalapenos
You favorite hot sauce

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to fill out a questionnaire about food and my relationship to it. What did I think about the latest food trends? Why is food important? Do I consider myself a "foodie"? (Answer: Eww, no.)

For the most part, the questions were easy for me to answer, save one:

"What is the best meal you've ever had (or made) and why?"

I had to walk away from the computer for a little while after I read that. The best meal ever? Ev-er? How the hell am I supposed to choose one meal out of the 43,000 or so meals I've eaten in my lifetime? There isn't one best meal. There are several.

I've already written about some of them: dining in a rain-soaked Paris with the most charming man on the planet; eating al fresco in a rose-scented garden with good friends; brunching and game-playing on a Sunday afternoon on the Isle of Alameda. Choosing a favorite among them would be like having to single out your favorite child. And there are so many others.

As I was struggling to single out one to discuss, I suddenly thought of one of the simplest meals I've ever eaten and one taken mostly in solitude-- a quesadilla that made me cry.

I had been out the night before with the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes upon and who, conveniently, doubled as my boyfriend. He was an actor who made his monthly rent by bartending at a swank restaurant by night and posing for greeting cards by day when he wasn't busy playing sailors with one line to speak on Murphy Brown and other, popular television shows of the day. He was old. Thirty. And charming. Very. What on earth he was doing with a twenty-two year-old with a flair for the dramatic was beyond me. Maybe it was an actor thing. Drama is as drama does.

Apparently, his being with me was rather beyond him as well, because that evening, after the depressing, excruciatingly unwatchable Derek Jarman film we'd just seen, he said the magic words that every love-struck person loves to hear:

"I'm sorry, but this just isn't really working for me. I think you're a nice guy and all..." And so on.

It was an early night.

I returned home to find my roommate Craig sitting on the couch in our living room, watching television. I withered into the cushion next to him. He didn't have to ask what was wrong, because he knew I was going to tell him everything. So he just poured me a drink and let me do it. I shall spare you the details.

The next morning, I awoke to a timid knock on my bedroom door. "Mike? You up?" Craig opened the door with his free hand. In the other was a tray. The guy had made me breakfast in bed. I sat up in my bed and took the tray from him. "I thought this might make you feel a bit better," he said.

No one had ever made me breakfast in bed.

On the tray were a cup of tea, a little glass of orange juice, and a quesadilla. A quesadilla for breakfast? Now that I think of it, that's a rather odd choice for breakfast, but the man's from San Diego, so there you have it. He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two and chatted with me, then suddenly sat up and told me that I should eat because my breakfast was getting cold. With that, he left the room.

I sat there staring into my quesadilla for a moment and thought how sweet it was of my best friend to make me breakfast like that. Why couldn't my boyfriend do things like that for me? And then, of course, I remembered that I no longer had a boyfriend. Depressed, I tucked into the quesadilla.

It was still warm and creamy on the tongue. He'd used the cambozola cheese we'd bought. We were coming out of our "brie-is-fancy" stage of cheese awareness and were now branching out into the bleu-veined ones.

But there was something else tucked into that crispy tortilla which made my tongue heated up. A lot. He threw in peppers. Scotch Bonnet peppers. Craig and his girlfriend Shannon had just started dating and were trying to out-macho each other on the Scoville scale. As an occasional participant in their bizarre, heat-related courtship ritual, I considered myself a wimp when it came to such things, but I continued to eat. My eyes burned, my nose began to run. After a couple of bites, I was in discomfort; after a couple more, I was in pain.

The gulping of hot tea did nothing to help. The swishing of orange juice around my gums only seemed to spread the heat everywhere. I had never eaten anything so hot in my life. It was horrible, yet oddly delicious. And then something unexpected happened.

I cried. I sat there in bed, balancing the tray of food on my knees and cried, which was something rather foreign and forbidden to young men. I hadn't allowed myself to do it in years. The heat from those damned peppers so filled my eyes with tears that there was nothing else I could do, so I just went with it.

I wept and sobbed and moaned as quietly as possible, but it went on and on. And on. Had I been standing, I would have lost my balance and fallen into a heap. It was uncontrollable. I felt inconsolable. All the disappointment and hurt I'd been storing inside me for years just poured out of me and onto my t-shirt and the breakfast tray. I can't remember how long I went on like that. I was grateful that Craig was thorough enough to provide a napkin.

"Well, that was weird," I thought. I was puffy and tear-stained and my tongue was still a but numb, but I felt incredibly, wonderfully light.

What was so awful? So I got dumped. I was disappointed, but I had to admit that the fellow who did the dumping did so honestly and with concern. He was (and I am sure still is) a thoroughly decent fellow. Rather than concentrate on a man I didn't have anymore, I thought about one that I lived with, thanks to some quirk of fate and good timing, for the past four years and realized just how lucky I was. I got out of bed, wandered into the kitchen, and thanked him. I should have given him a big bear hug and told him that, despite the pain of that meal, I'd never felt better after eating anything in my life. I should have told him that I loved him, but I was twenty-two and felt weird about telling anyone I loved them.

Fortunately, a lot has changed since then. I can handle heat, I can cry unaided by painful food stuffs, I can tell the people who are important in my life that I love them.

And then there are some things that haven't changed. Craig's still there after twenty years. When I begin to mope and whine about all the things I don't have in my life, I check myself by thinking about all the great things I do. And Craig, his wife Shannon, and their wonderful/crazy children are always at the top of that list. So, since I'm here and all, I might as well say it.

Thanks for always being there, Craig. I love you, man.

Cambozola Quesadilla

Serves 1

Fortunately, I've grown to the point where I no longer need the help of chile peppers to make me cry. I can do that on my own, thank you very much. As a result, I am sparing with their use. If you still need such aid, I would suggest going overboard with them. It's your quesadilla, you can cry if you want to.

I've substituted habañero chiles for Scotch Bonnets in this recipe because they are easily available and hover in the same heat category (100,000 to 350,000) on the Scoville scale.

Quesadillas are incredibly versatile-- you can put just about anything in them, so long as the ingredients won't crack a tooth. I mean, Craig did. Add whatever you like.

Ingredients:

1 large flour tortilla

Cambozola cheese (rinds removed or not-- your choice), sliced into thin wedges.

Olive oil or butter for cooking

1 to 2 habañero chiles, finely chopped. Or Scotch Bonnets. Or, if you really need help, Law Enforcement Grade Pepper Spray (5,ooo,ooo+ Scoville rating). Or just skip making the quesadilla altogether and try intensive psychotherapy.

Preparation:

1. Heat a heavy-bottomed skillet, preferable cast iron (or, if you have one, a comal) with about a half-dollar-sized amount of butter or olive oil. Add tortilla and cook gently until little air pockets form.

2. Arrange cheese on one half of the tortilla. Sprinkle as much chopped chile as you dare, keeping the heat on low. Fold the empty side of the tortilla onto the one covered in cheese and chiles.

3. Wash hands thoroughly with soap and water. When living with Craig, I used a cutting board that had just been used to chop habañeros. Neither of us washed our hands, but merely rinsed them off quickly. I made the mistake of touching my eye. Craig made the greater mistake of going to the bathroom. We both retired to our respective bedrooms and writhed in pain in privacy.

4. Return to the quesadilla, increasing the heat slightly. Flip it every twenty seconds or so until both sides are browned and crisp and the insides melted.

5. Remove quesadilla from the skillet and cut into wedges. Serve with sour cream or Mexican crema, or whatever you like. Or just slide it onto a plate, crawl into bed, and prepare yourself for a good, long weep.