My dad was born in 1907, a time when the world was simpler on the surface, but harder in so many ways. He lived through the Great Depression, when food was never taken for granted and a full fridge was a sign of stability and survival. That early experience shaped how he lived the rest of his life. In our home, there was always something to eat, something simmering, something being saved “just in case.” And at the heart of all that was his chili and cornbread.
Dad’s chili wasn’t fancy. No secret ingredients, no award-winning titles. But it was hearty, bold, and comforting, the kind of meal that warmed you from the inside out.
What made it even more special was when he made it. My dad was a midnight snacker, sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find him in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove in his robe, stirring a pot of chili or heating up a bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world. But before that midnight bowl, he had a ritual.
He’d put on a pot of chili in the early evening, letting it slowly simmer while he headed out to the backyard. There he’d sit in his old metal lawn chair, light up a cigar, and tune his little transistor radio to the baseball game. I can still see him now, smoke curling around him, the crackle of the game in the background. That quiet moment under the stars was his alone, a small pause in a life full of hard work and quiet responsibility.
As a kid, I didn’t realize how much those small moments would stick with me. But now, even years later, I still find myself wandering to the kitchen late at night, opening the fridge, thinking of him. I keep it full, just like he did. Not out of fear, but out of habit, and maybe a bit of love too. Because to him, a stocked fridge wasn’t just about food. It was about comfort, preparation, and care. It was about never letting anyone go without.
That same care extended to grocery shopping. For my parents, it wasn’t a chore, it was an event. He and Mom would spend half a day going from store to store, comparing prices and inspecting produce, stretching every dollar to get the best quality they could afford. It was practical, but it was also a quiet kind of pride: providing well, even when times were lean.
And sometimes, when the world feels uncertain or I just need a little warmth, I make a pot of chili, his chili. The smell alone brings him back to me. It reminds me that food isn’t just about nourishment. It’s memory. It’s connections. It’s love served up in a bowl at midnight.
I hope you enjoyed my story and it brings you some beautiful memories of your own. If you want to read more check out Memories of a Cast Iron Skillet and My First Strawberry Rhubarb Pie.
