To the Turkey Chili Recipe From Anne

First, you are simple. Brown the turkey. Add the vegetables, beans and spices. Wine. Broth. Simmer. One pot, one knife, one spoon, one cutting board. And for that small effort, we have a most satisfying dinner.

Second, you are equally good in the crock-pot. Not everything translates to a slow cooker, so I was happy to discover that cooking you in the crock-pot while I am away all day, lecturing about ethos, meeting with a student to say the essay needs more work, meeting with colleagues to discuss the continued exploitation of our adjunct faculty and how to fix that, while I am doing all this, I know dinner is cooking. I will walk in the door and, as if by magic, I will be fed a delicious and substantial meal.

Third, you are turkey and not beef. I’m not a fan of beef. It’s not the taste of beef, really, but the idea of it: coming from a cow. I’m not opposed to eating animals, even mammals; I love bacon and pork chops. Perhaps it’s ontological. Cows are so big. And dumb. The way the wander, if allowed, across the plains, get rounded up by cowpokes. I prefer turkey.

Fourth, you go well with shredded cheddar and monterey jack cheese. All things that go well with cheese are loved as much as the cheese itself: a good cracker, french bread, pears, tortilla chips, red and white wine, parties.

Fifth, you make enough for two dinners and two lunches. The next morning, still sleepy, I plan my day and then I remember, “Chili for lunch!” It’s a better day when lunch is a warm bowl of chili instead of a cold sandwich. I am the adult I always thought I would be.

Sixth, and finally, you came from Anne. We were living in Michigan when she sent you in a letter. I can still see her handwriting, though I have long ago lost the letter. Anne is smart. And we were smart together. In graduate school, we talked books and patriarchy and power. We drank coffee in the afternoon and beer in the evening. We wanted to be professors, intellectual women. We were owned by the same vision for the future. Years later, after we have both become English professors, her house in New Orleans was flooded after Katrina. She lost everything but what she had taken with her in her Mazda. She tells me about seeing the water marks on the top of the wall, close to the ceiling. Even things stashed in the top of the closet were ruined. Her cats were gone. She doesn’t want to think about them. I sent you back to her. Recipes become bridges between lives. And every time I put the meat in the pan and chop the onion, I think of her. A prayer for the lives we lived, the lives we’ve lost, and the lives we have tonight.