Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,50

van, shouldered the chests of food, and headed to meet Drew at Montrachet.

We weren’t the only ones feeding the rescue workers; chefs from all over the city set up makeshift kitchens around the disaster. But we were the only ones who took our food right into the heart of Ground Zero, and although we’d seen it on television, nothing had prepared us for this horror. It was a bombed-out war zone, a zombie space that no longer resembled any New York I’d ever known.

Near what had once been Reade Street, a fireman handed out face masks, and we tied them on and marched in, tripping over hoses with our cases of food. Above us the surviving skyscrapers tilted at uncomfortable angles, staring vacantly down through blackened holes that had once been windows.

Lured by the scent of chili and cornbread, exhausted firefighters came stumbling out of the dust. Covered in white powder, they were like ghosts staggering through the smoke.

“Is that chili?” A man collapsed onto a broken beam and pulled off his respirator; his mouth gleamed beneath the ashen grime of his face as he fell upon the food.

It wasn’t much; it was a bowl of chili. But when the man looked up and said, “Thank you for this taste of home,” I looked around at the dust and smoke and chaos and began to cry.

I remembered that moment a week later, when I sat down to write the monthly Letter from the Editor.

“We were almost finished with this Thanksgiving issue,” I began, “when the world fell apart.” Then I stopped; it had been only seven days since the Twin Towers came down, and none of us knew what lay ahead. I was writing into a vacuum. “Because monthly magazines are written long before they actually appear on your doorstep, I have no idea what life will be like when you read these words.” It was the first time that I understood, really understood, that the world would never be the same.

I thought about my own Thanksgiving, wondering what it would be like this year. I heard the firefighter’s voice once again and realized that in the rubble of the World Trade Center I’d suddenly understood the true meaning of food. I knew, without any doubt, that as long as I lived, chili would be one of the ways in which I offer thanks.

Thanksgiving, of course, isn’t Thanksgiving without turkey. So my Thanksgiving chili is a turkey version based on a beloved Gourmet recipe. I made it in 2001, and since then our Thanksgiving table has never been without it. It reminds us, sadly, of the friends we lost on 9/11—and of the many reasons we have to be thankful.

THANKSGIVING TURKEY CHILI

•••

1 tablespoon cumin seeds

3 canned whole chipotle chilies in adobo

1 bottle dark beer

2 pounds tomatillos (husked, rinsed, and quartered)

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

3 large onions (chopped)

½ cup fresh cilantro (chopped)

2 teaspoons fresh oregano (finely minced)

2 jalapeños (diced; if you don’t like heat, remove the seeds)

3½ pounds ground turkey

1½ cups chicken broth

8 large cloves of garlic (peeled but left whole)

Salt

1 bay leaf

2 cups cooked white beans

1 4-ounce can diced green chile peppers

Cream sherry

Balsamic vinegar

Sour cream

Toast the cumin seeds in a dry skillet until they’re fragrant. Allow to cool, then grind to powder.

Puree the chipotle chilies with the adobo.

Put the beer into a medium-sized pot, add the tomatillos, bring to a boil, and turn the heat down to a simmer. Cook for about five minutes, until the tomatillos are soft. Strain the tomatillos (reserving liquid), and puree in a blender or food processor. Pour back into the pot with the beer.

Slick the bottom of a large casserole with a couple of tablespoons of oil, and sauté the onions until they’re translucent. Add the cilantro, oregano, jalapeños, and cumin and stir for a couple of minutes. Break the turkey into the mixture and stir until it just starts to lose its raw color. Add the pureed tomatillos and beer, the chipotle puree, the chicken broth, and the garlic, along with a couple of teaspoons of salt and the bay leaf, and simmer the mixture for about an hour and a half.

With a large spoon, smash the now-soft cloves of garlic and stir them into the chili. Add the white beans and diced chile peppers and taste for salt. At this point I like to start playing with the flavors, adding a