Chuck Wagon Chili

February. Joey's anniversary again — five years and change. I didn't drive to Thibodaux this time. I made his gumbo at home, with tomatoes, the Creole version that Mama says isn't Cajun and that Joey said was delicious and that I say is both. I made it with Rémy. Father and son, standing at the stove, Rémy stirring while I added ingredients, both of us quiet, both of us knowing this gumbo is more than food. It's a memorial. A prayer. A conversation with a man who can't answer but who can still be heard, if you listen with your hands and your nose and the particular attention that only comes when you're making someone else's recipe and trying to get it right.

Rémy said, "Tell me about Papaw." And I did. I told him about the fishing. About the roux lessons. About the too-loud laugh and the Saints cap and the way he called everyone "cher" and meant it every time. And Rémy listened with the gumbo-simmering patience that he's developing — slow, focused, the kind of listening that absorbs instead of just hearing. And when I was done, he said, "I wish I remembered him better." He was two when Joey died. He doesn't remember much. But he remembers the laugh. "I remember his laugh, Papa. It was big." It was big, cher. The biggest laugh in Lafourche Parish. And now it lives in a seven-year-old's memory and a pot of gumbo and a tattoo on my forearm, and that's enough to keep it alive. That's enough.

We don’t always make the gumbo. Some years the grief settles into something quieter, and I reach for a different pot — one with the same long simmer, the same smell of spices blooming in hot oil, the same requirement to stay close and pay attention. Joey loved a good chili, the kind that fills a kitchen with smoke and warmth and makes you feel like someone is home. This Chuck Wagon Chili carries that same weight: it’s built for standing over, for talking over, for the kind of stirring that isn’t really about the pot at all. Rémy and I make it on the hard days, and it holds us the same way the gumbo does — like a big, loud laugh from a man who can’t be here but refuses to be gone.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 1 hour | Total Time: 1 hour 15 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 lbs ground beef (80/20) or beef chuck cut into 1/2-inch cubes
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
1 green bell pepper, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons tomato paste
1 (28 oz) can diced tomatoes, with juices
1 (15 oz) can tomato sauce
2 cups beef broth
3 tablespoons chili powder
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper, or to taste
1 teaspoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Brown the meat. Heat oil in a large, heavy-bottomed Dutch oven or pot over medium-high heat. Add the beef in a single layer and cook, breaking up as needed, until deeply browned, about 8–10 minutes. Drain all but 1 tablespoon of fat from the pot.
Soften the aromatics. Reduce heat to medium. Add the onion and bell pepper to the pot and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
Bloom the spices. Stir in the tomato paste, chili powder, cumin, smoked paprika, oregano, cayenne, salt, and black pepper. Cook, stirring constantly, for 1–2 minutes until the spices are fragrant and the paste darkens slightly.
Build the base. Pour in the diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, and beef broth. Stir well, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot.
Simmer low and slow. Bring the chili to a boil, then reduce heat to low. Simmer uncovered, stirring every 10–15 minutes, for 45 minutes to 1 hour until the chili has thickened and the flavors have come together. The color should deepen and the surface should show a slow, lazy bubble.
Taste and serve. Adjust salt and cayenne to taste. Serve hot, with cornbread, saltines, or a quiet kitchen and someone you love standing close by.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chuck Wagon Chili — The Pot You Stir When Words Run Out