On my trip home this year, the nostalgia took on a different quality. I grew up in California, the Bay Area in particular, which has a particularity unlike anywhere else I have ever known. Greece is similar in climate, but so much more ancient and full of utterances from the past. California's venerability comes from its wealth of building from the 1930's and before. Everywhere you look there is a fine example of an Arts and Crafts bungalow, or a Victorian townhome.
Photo from here.
Winter in California means a lot to me. It is the only time of the year when the weather is variable. Mostly in California there is sun, and in San Francisco fog and wind. But in the winter there is also rain, of all intensities, and every kind of rain evokes a mood, a time, or a memory.
The night before I left for home this time, I came out of a movie theater (No Country For Old Men, which I will blog about) with my brother and step-uncle, to a viscous fog swirling with drizzle. I immediately thought of my flight the next morning, early, and of planes grounded.
But when I woke up before dawn, the sky was spangled starry.
Ealier that week I walked in the Oakland hills with my stepmother, and it rained on us, gently, and the canopy of cloud, creamy jumbled grays, lowered enough so that we could not see across to the skyline of the city, nor the Golden Gate Bridge.
At the Rockridge Cafe, a place blessedly the same over the decades I have been away, we had a cornmeal waffle and a hamburger with half a sliced avocado over the top. Avocado says California to me. It is a spread like mayonnaise for sandwiches, as anyone knows who ever ate a turkey sandwich at Togo's.
Winter also means chili and coleslaw. My father made a signature version that is the definition of comfort for me, accompanied by thick, unbuttered slices of San Francisco sourdough bread. On Sundays in winter we might play football in a park, Dad and all brothers plus whoever else in the family was game, under sun or rain, it didn't matter. We would come home muddy and famished, and Dad would whip up a pot of chili and cut cabbage for the slaw. It was a recipe for a parent who has too many children and too little time to be fussy about ingredients and seasonings.
My brother has made the chili and coleslaw since the passing of my father, and he taught the recipes to me this time, to my great gratitude and pleasure.
Here they are:
Dad's Chili
(Easily doubled)
1 lb. ground beef
1 onion, coarsely chopped
3 cloves garlic or to taste
2 tbsp. vegetable oil
salt, pepper to taste
1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
1 15 oz. can kidney beans
1 "schluck" red wine (about a half cup)
chili powder to taste (try 1 tbps. to start)
In a large stockpot with a lid, sautee onion in vegetable oil until limp, seasoning with salt and pepper. Add garlic and sautee another couple of minutes, making sure not to brown garlic. Add ground beef and brown. Drain excess fat. Add tomatoes, beans, and wine. Season with chili powder. Bring to a boil, then simmer at least 45 minutes, stirring and making sure it does not boil or stick to the bottom of the pot. The chili should be thick enough to sit on a plate without running, and to be eaten with a fork.
Serves 6. It is even better on the second day. Plate with Dad's Coleslaw and thick slices of sourdough bread. In the old days it would have been Colombo; nowadays LaBrea is a good national substitute. Boudin is not suitable. It is too cakey. It is much better for sandwiches.
Dad's Coleslaw
1/2 head green cabbage
1/2 cup real mayonnaise
3 tbsp. white vinegar or to taste
Several grinds black pepper (optional)
Chop the coleslaw coarsely into long strips about two matchsticks thick. Measure the mayonnaise into a coffee mug and combine with vinegar. Do not substitute other vinegars. It will not taste or look the same. Whip the vinegar with the mayonnaise until well mixed. The dressing should taste creamy with a noticeable bite. Combine dressing with cabbage and coat well (if there is not enough dressing to coat, make more). Grind pepper over coleslaw if desired.
Serves 6.
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